


It Be Like That Sometimes

by badAquatic



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Black Comedy, Body Horror, Bumblebee Hates His New Job, Bumblebee Learns A Brand New Kink, Canon Is Dead My City Now, Canon-Typical Stupidity, Canon-Typical Violence, Capitalism ruins everything, Decepticons being Decepticons, Discussion of Mental Health, Emetophobia, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gallows Humor, Hiding Medical Issues, Implied Mpreg, Knockout's Mouth Causes Bumblebee No Ends of Problems, M/M, Mechpreg, Medical Procedures, Mpreg, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Post-Predacons Rising (Prime Movie), Post-War, Rated M for Knockout's Mouth, References to Depression, Sexual Humor, Slow Burn, Space Alien Politics, Team as Family, Terrible Robot Related Puns, The Decepticons Are Lawful Tired, Transformer Sparklings, Transgender Characters, robot gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 103,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24715759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: Just because six million years of war suddenly ends doesn't mean that the story is over, especially when said story involves giant alien robots who have no idea what a government even is.
Relationships: Bumblebee/Knock Out, Optimus Prime/Ratchet
Comments: 220
Kudos: 176





	1. Jack

**Author's Note:**

> I'm well aware of how stupid this is. Let's just enjoy the ride. - badAquatic

> **It’s been 6 million years of war and Ratchet is just sick of God’s shit at this point.**

“So that’s it?” Jack asked, “He’s just… _gone_?”

Ratchet shrugged, not looking up from the datapad. “Seems that way.”

Apparently, Jack had missed a lot in the passing months the Autobots spent on Cybertron: Predacons rising, Unicron’s (kinda) resurrection, Megatron’s new and pointy paintjob before the tyrant fragged off into space, and Optimus’ sacrifice.

Only a handful of months for the Autobots; two years for Jack and the rest of humanity on Earth.

You never think about the distance between planets, the size of the galaxy, and the scientific miracle of faster-than-light travel until a spacebridge is unavailable and you can’t talk to your cool alien robot friends on their homeworld to find out if they’re dead or not.

Miko had been disappointed to have missed the fighting. Raf had more scientific pursuits now that he had free range of the _Nemesis_ and all its alien technologies. Cybertron was still hostile to organic life so anything outside the old _Nemesis_ (rename pending) was a no-go zone.

The Autobots now had a functioning spacebridge to Earth…but not much else from the looks of it. He was with Ratchet in the medbay, which looked like an episode of Hoarder’s if it took place on the _Enterprise_. Every available space on Ratchet’s desk and on the floor was cluttered with boxes of datapads, chunks of machinery, and jars of God-knows-what stared in dusty and/or cracked containers. Jack didn’t know if they were parts of a non-sentient machine or robo-organs, but he wasn’t touching it—even if he was still in his environmental suit.

“It’s just…” Jack didn’t know how to say it politely, so he just went for honesty. “…you don’t seem that broken up about it?”

Jack had expected a shout or lecture from Ratchet, the old but lovable grumpbot who cared deeply for his patients and his fellow robots more than he was willing to admit. Instead, the old Autobot rolled his optics.

“Oh, he _always_ does this.” Ratchet said, “A common symptom of being a Prime is self-sacrificing behavior, death, saying ‘the age of Primes’ are over, usually followed by a catchphrase--”

“Like, ‘One Shall Rise, One Shall Fall’?” Arcee, Miko, and Bulkhead had started a drinking game for each time Optimus said that.

“This time it was ‘Til All Are One’. That ol’ _gem_.” Ratchet made air quotations, a gesture learned solely from humans. “It’s as if Primes have the same tired bot writing their speeches and they haven’t been allowed a coffinite break in ten thousand years.”

“I see.” Jack said, since he had no frame of reference for speech writers or coffinite breaks (although he could piece things together with context clues, as one always had to do when dealing with alien robots).

“ _Anyway_ ,” Ratchet grumbled, “either one or two things happen: Optimus comes back through some organo-scrap nonsense or another Prime shows up.” The datapad in his servos gave a metallic creek as the pressure increased. “This kind of absurdity is why I’m an atheist. Why would gods allow for death to be a revolving door for some when others deserve better? Don’t get me started on how many times we’ve ‘killed’ Starscream!”

The door of the medbay irised open and in walked…Knockout? Or rather, a mech who looked _like_ Knockout but his appearance was radically different. The paintjob had less emphasis on the red, adding in black on the chassis and legs and silver for the shoulder pauldrons and arms. The Decepticon shield was gone as there was a large scrape and dent in its place. Under the medbay lights, his paint was dull and far less shiny. The char marks reminded Jack of his Mom’s old metal frying pan rather than the sleek Decepticon racer.

_If_ this was Knockout and not a weird clone, twin, or relative. (Did the Autobots have relatives? Jack was never clear on that)

“Knockout?” Jack asked, just to clarify.

The tri-colored mech grinned, showing off sharp teeth.

“I challenge you to confuse me with any other handsome mechs around here.” he said with a satisfied purr. 

This was either Knockout or a very convincing actor.

“But aren’t you a Decepticon?” Jack asked.

“I’d rather he was still a ‘Con. Then I could ignore him.” Ratchet grumbled.

Knockout strutted toward Ratchet’s desk and five datapads appeared in his claws. _From his subspace,_ Jack realized and wondered how the mechs managed to keep pocket dimensional objects so orderly.

“Ignore Doctor Grandpa.” Knockout said, “He’s just mad that besides him, I’m the only qualified medic.”

“I’ll be the judge of your ‘qualifications’ once I get a look at your _actual_ license.” Ratchet looked through the datapads and frowned. “And Knockout, I _don’t_ need this! These manuals are older than my mentor!”

Knockout shrugged. “You were the one that wanted all the medical and experiment related datapads in one location. We didn’t have secretaries on the _Nemesis_.”

The _Nemesis_ was an alien spaceship--which was still cool on a technical level--but its glamour had worn off on Jack around hour three when there were two brownouts. He was yet to be in a room that didn’t have walls caked with rust, potholes on the ground, or walls looking ready to collapse. Arcee had already warned the human guests from getting too close to the lower decks of the ship that were still ‘under maintenance’, which was a nice way of saying it could kill them. Jack was glad his Mom was still on Earth doing ‘basic training’ for Unit:E or she’d have a conniption over the lack of safety measures.

“Or janitors either.” Jack said, “Don’t you guys have robo-OSHA?”

Knockout suddenly looked forlorn. “I knew an ‘Osha’.” he sighed, “He was a minibot, but he could suck off helm like a champ.” He paused, “Wait, he _was_ the champ. He competed at the Landing Strip.”

“What does that--” Jack began.

“The answer is _no_!” Ratchet said.

Knockout smirked. “‘No’ to _what_ exactly?”

“No to _everything_!” Ratchet said. The old mech stood and began shooing Jack out of the medbay. “Alright, the medics have to do their jobs which means all organics out of the room, unless you want to breathe carbon monoxide or one of the many gases that are hazardous to your pink, soft human lungs.”

“Couldn’t that be dangerous to you too?” Jack asked but he was shoved out of the medbay.

The door irised shut behind him and he was left in the hall. It was just like Ratchet to shoo him out of the room like he was still a kid, when he was now a college freshman. As if Jack didn’t know what context clues were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Knockout’s new frame is based off the Bloody Knockout toy. Cause it looks neat to me. --badAquatic


	2. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied suicidal thoughts at the veeeery end

> **Knockout’s life rule number one is that you gotta have fun.**

Ratchet made sure Jack was out of the medbay before turning to Knockout. The ex-Decepticon was holding a glass cylinder of ooze, swirling it around like he had nothing better to do than watch the contents slosh around.

“ _What_ have we told you about proper Autobot behavior?” Ratchet asked.

“Hey, don’t blame me.” Knockout put down the cylinder and took out another datapad from his subspace, “We _all_ agreed that if you leave energon in the fridge for more than three days with no label on it, it’s up for grabs.”

“This isn’t about commissary fridge policies!” Ratchet walked over to the younger mech and seized the datapad. The younger—and far shorter—mech tried to jump for it as Ratchet held it away. “Knockout, what is Autobot rule 122 policy 40 subparagraph A-9?”

Knockout stopped jumping long enough to roll his optics. “Who am I, Ultra Magnus?”

“To paraphrase,” Ratchet said, “Autobots don’t discuss, ugh, ‘ _canoodling’_ in front of organics. Especially young impressionable ones.”

Knockout tilted his helm. “Please tell me ‘canoodling’ is the same as fragging and not a code for some weird, Autobot-only kink.”

“ _Eyp eyp eyp!_ No using the ‘f’ word either! Not unless you want to sit through one of Ultra Magnus’s sexual harassment seminars and have it drilled into your processor about inappropriate terminology and proper workplace conduct. And trust me, it’s a nightmare of slideshow presentations, dramatic reenactments, low-resolution videoclips, and puppetry.”

“… _puppetry_?”

“Believe me when I say that you’ll never look at those felt-covered cretins the same again once you’ve been through it.” Ratchet shuddered. He still had the occasional recharge flux about Groping Gary, the Bad Touch Marionette. “The point is that we don’t talk to organics about our biology unless it is absolutely necessary and even then we only use technical, textbook terms.”

“Huh. Okay.” Knockout rubbed his chin, “Next question: _whhhhhhhy_? Don’t tell me that Optimus Prime was embarrassed about his fellow mechs, femmes, and others fragging.” The mech grinned, “Ooh, or was it the _opposite_ and the handsome Prime couldn’t control _his_ sex drive? Or was it an issue with reproduction control--”

“It’s not _about_ that! It’s about avoiding offense on a social and/or cultural level when interacting with organic aliens!” Ratchet stated. That had been the oft repeated point of Ultra Magnus’s marathon of a seminar. “Most organics don’t operate like we do and can be troubled on a socio-political level by the uncommon nature of our mechanology, _especially_ when it comes to reproduction or reproductive-like acts. I don’t need to tell you about that time Cybertronians interacted with a certain species during the Golden Age and when they discovered our intersex natures, they declared us a ‘sullied’ species that had to be exterminated for the sake of the galaxy and their own sense of cultural preservation.”

It was then Ratchet realized Knockout had spent the past five minutes studying his talons, quietly humming to himself. When he glowered at the red and black mech, Knockout straightened.

“I guess it _is_ none of their business how we go bumper-to-bumper.” Knockout admitted. The mech sighed, dramatically, “I guess I’m just disappointed. I thought there might have been water to Thundercracker’s lurid tales of Optimus Prime related orgies due to some new type of energon getting everyone’s trans fluid boiling--”

“ _Enough_.” Ratchet lifted several boxes and handed them to Knockout. Knockout nearly fell over before placing all of them in his subspace. “If you’ve got time to talk about the very fictitious and untrue… _canoodling_ of Autobot leaders, you have time to run errands. Put that box on the bridge. They’re for the communications hub, or what _was_ the communications hub before Soundwave took it over. What they’re doing here amongst the medical supplies, I have _no_ clue. Then I need you to check in with Wheeljack at the engines about our power situation. And no sneaking off to the commissary this time around!”

“Yeah, yeah...” Knockout grunted and thankfully left the medbay without another lewd comment.

Ratchet doubted that Knockout would do any of that in a timely fashion but it could be worse. The former Decepticon was a mouthy little miscreant on his good days but he still completed his tasks and had enough passable medical knowledge (the source of said knowledge Ratchet questioned but they were too short staffed to deal with that _just_ yet). Contrary to what Ratchet had initially thought, Knockout was a quiet captive/defector/Autobot-in-training. No evidence of scheming to betray them, no hiding contraband, no complaints about habsuite arrangements, movement and comm restrictions, the monitored datapad and database server activity, or the tracking chip.

Even better, Knockout kept to himself.

Decepticons had this strange notion of Autobots being a touchy, feely, get-along group of machines. That all Autobots functioned as a family rather than a trained, military cadre. The truth was that the Decepticons had such a strange and twisted sense of loyalty that it was amazing they hadn’t self-destructed from the cycles of betrayal and forgiveness. Autobots cared about their comrades and didn’t want to see them come to harm, but they were still individuals. From what Ratchet could tell, Decepticons were _always_ in each other’s business. Autobots preferred comradeship to anything else. Who wanted to be bothered with the mess of romantic entanglement during a sometimes hot, sometimes cold war?

Not that Autobots _didn’t_ frag. It was just more…low-key than Decepticons, apparently.

Ugh, Ratchet didn’t want to think about fragging or relationships at a time like this. He had better things to do, like categorize the medical equipment and determine which one of Shockwave’s weird experiments were salvageable and which ones needed to be incinerated as soon as possible.

The mech looked at his servo and realized he was still holding a datapad. Knockout’s personal datapad. He hadn’t liked the idea of giving Knockout a personal datapad but Arcee pointed out that the mech would need access to information to carry out medical duties. They came to a concession by having the datapad be heavily monitored by the database AI and having it uploaded with all the Autobot protocols Knockout would have to learn anyway. 

Curiously, Ratchet slid his finger along the datapad’s sleeping screen. Since Knockout had fragging on the processor, he expected to be greeted with the pornography that they all knew had been uploaded to the server by Wheeljack in clandestinely named files.

Instead, Ratchet was greeted with a data file:

_WARNING: Turning off all system functions will result in complete deactivation of the processor followed by extinguishing of the spark. If you feel emotional distress, please consult your chief medical officer or processor maintenance provider—_

The manual went on about the dangers of a spark extinguishing, but Ratchet summarized the discover in three words:

“Aw, frag me!”


	3. Bumblebee

> **Everyone thinks Bumblebee is the sweetest mech you could ever know** **but the reality is that he’s actually the worst kind of bot with a terrible sense of humor**

“What about the _Thunderstorm_?” Smokescreen suggested.

“I knew a Thunderstorm.” Bumblebee said, “He was a real prick. Literally. His alt-mode was a giant syringe.”

“…for _who_?”

Bumblebee shrugged, or as much as he could shrug. He was elbow-strut deep in the bridge’s central communications array. Soundwave must have been the central processor of the system because without the creepy mech’s presence, it had entered hibernation mode. Raf and him had spent an hour trying to figure out why it wasn’t responding before Bumblebee declared ‘frag it’ and just started opening panels.

_“When in doubt, break it out,”_ was what Wheeljack always said when it came to finicky technology.

Raf had to be shooed away though. The _Nemesis_ (rename pending) was atmospherized for human comfort, but there was no telling what effect Cybertronian engineering would have on human biology if something went horribly wrong (which it most often did).

“How ‘bout _Majestic_?” Smokescreen asked, “Don’t know a bot named that.” He was allegedly ‘helping’ but the mech was also just sitting on his aft pretending to still be looking for the ship’s manual.

“Strip club.” Bumblebee said.

“Don’t you mean ‘gentlebot’s club’?” Smokescreen said, quoting the proper term straight from the Autobot manual. Bumblebee would have been more annoyed if the mech hadn’t said it with a smarmy grin.

“It’s still a place where bots take off their outer armor and get as close to their protoforms as legally allowed.”

“Oh _really_ now?” Smokescreen’s optical ridges hitched up. “And when would sweet, innocent ‘Bee have been inside one of those insidious dens of nudity, high grade, and sharewaring?”

“‘Sweet, innocent ‘Bee’ is the best scout in the Autobots and has been inside _plenty_ of places,” Bumblebee said with a wide smile. “You’d be surprised how nice strippers are when you’re just a little mech trying to get directions to his mentor’s habsuite. Though I won’t lie and say I _didn’t_ get caught once. Its how I met Jazz.”

“Get out!” Smokescreen cackled.

Bumblebee nodded. Even after all these years, the encounter was too embarrassing to forget.

“You know how it is,” Bumblebee said, “you’re a mechling thinking you’re hot scrap on the block and you can bluff your way into a seedy joint, maybe catch a look at real protoform and sneak some high grade while the patrons are feeling up the showbots. You’re inching closer to a real tempting drink and then _whoops_ , the Enforcers show up. Cut to me hiding in a closet, pretending to be a cleaning minibot and not a mechling in _waaaay_ over his head. I could bluff or bribe any of the idiot Enforcers by saying my mentor was so-and-so but Jazz…you _can’t_ lie to Jazz.”

“Really now?” Smokescreen’s door-wings twitched with interest.

“It’s why nobody plays cyber-poker with him.” Bumblebee shrugged. “Jazz was like, ‘Kid, your kinda sneaking is what we need and I’m willing to overlook this whole mess if you help out’. That’s how I met Optimus, er, Orion at that time. ‘Course Jazz cleaned up the story; left out how I was a street punk. I don’t think it made much of a difference to Orion but…Cybertron was a different back then.”

“Really? How?”

Bumblebee looked at Smokescreen’s wide optics and remembered how much younger the mech was. Bumblebee had already joined up with the Autobots and experienced Cybertron at peace, but Smokescreen was built during the bloated, middle of the civil war. He came from a generation of bots made by the High Council to shore up the decreasing numbers of Elite Guard. Smokescreen never had a mechlinghood of mischief like Bumblebee. Pit, he hadn’t even met most of the Autobots before he was placed in stasis by Alpha Trion.

“It’s gonna be that way again.” Bumblebee insisted. Smokescreen’s mouth curved into not quite a frown, but a look of strong skepticism. “Anyway, are you going to help me with this computer or not, lazy-aft?”

“I’m _helping_!” Smokescreen held up the datapad, “I couldn’t find the manual but Soundwave made some notes, which is _kind_ _of_ like a manual.”

“Does it explain what _this_ is?” Bumblebee gestured to the static images on the communication hub screen.

Smokescreen looked at the pad. “Well, uh. Y’know. There’s a lot of…data. What with…all the info…” Bumblebee groaned. “Hey, you try reading through all this! There’s almost two centuries worth of notes! It’s like the mech never had a personal life!”

To Bumblebee’s mounting irritation, that was when the door of the communication hub decided to iris open. Odds were that it was Miko, who hadn’t outgrown her habit for attracting trouble or sneaking into forbidden areas. Not that Bumblebee didn’t tolerate Miko, but he wouldn’t be able to fix the communications hub and watch Bulkhead’s pet/adopted daughter/friend.

But Miko didn’t walk in. Knockout stepped through the doorway, sweating like he was going to bust a gear if he took two more steps. Without a word, he opened his subspace and dumped several boxes onto the floor.

“Fragging Shockwave and his useless scrap!” Knockout griped, “I should’ve thrown this out of the airlock when I had the chance!”

“You alright there, Hard Knocks?” Smokescreen asked, “That time in the brig must’ve put you out of shape.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that.” Knockout snarled, baring his sharp dentae. He kicked one of the boxes toward Smokescreen. “Apparently these are supposed to be in the communications hub. Apparently Ratchet thinks you could use it.”

Smokescreen look over at one of the datapads. “I think even the Iacon archivists would hesitate about this collection. A lot of these pads look older than me.”

Bumblebee didn’t want to pause in his task of rewiring the communications array, but something was niggling at the back of his processor. Knockout had been easily irritated lately. Bumblebee would have waved it off as annoyance at the energon rations or the brownouts but this felt…different.

“What crawled up your aft-port, little red?” Bumblebee asked. “One of the Vehicons realized they could play keep-away with you?”

Knockout’s pauldrons and talons flared out, making him appear as threatening as possible. If Knockout was a physical threat, Bumblebee’s proximity alerts would be going off. Still, he braced himself for a fight…but then Knockout sighed. The red mech inhaled, exhaled, and then plastered on his patented smile.

“Exactly nothing.” Knockout said. Without warning, the other mech moved closer to Bumblebee. He lifted a talon and ran it along Bumblebee’s chassis, hovering the needle-like tip so not to scratch the paint. “Which is part of my problem. You Autobots don’t know how to have _fun_ , and when I mention it, Ratchet lectured me for talking about it in front of your organic pets!” He said the last with an injured, pouting look—as if he was meant to be pitied.

“Humans.” Bumblebee brushed away the mischievous claw before Knockout had them wander elsewhere. “I don’t know how you ‘Cons ran things, but I can take a guess. Arcee’s already asking questions about some of the stains in the habsuites. I’m not sure how to break the news to her.”

“She should be more worried about any drawers or suspicious containers in said habsuites.” Knockout’s crimson optics narrowed as his grin widened, “You might uncover some forgotten…toys.”

“Toys?”

“Of the kind you _definitely_ wouldn’t want the humans to see, but _you_ might be intrigued.” Knockout said the latter with a sly wink.

The look in Knockout’s optics hinted at something fun--something that was _definitely_ against Autobot regulations--if Bumblebee played along.

Unfortunately for the red mech, Bumblebee wasn’t biting.

Bumblebee turned back to the communications array. “Don’t you have more deliveries to make?” he asked.

Knockout scoffed and Bumblebee didn’t have to turn around to know he was fully irritated now. The red mech turned on his heels and the door shut behind him. Bumblebee sighed and affixed the computer pad he had been messing with to the communications input schematic. None of the Autobots or Vehicons could plug in directly to the _Nemesis’_ communication system like Soundwave, so this jury-rigged method would have to do for now.

“Bro.” Smokescreen said, “How did you score that?”

“What now?” Bumblebee pressed the newly installed pad’s buttons, hoping he had wired everything correctly.

“Knockout.” Smokescreen gestured to the door with his thumb. “When’d you clang _that_?”

If Bumblebee was sipping a drink, now would be the moment he spat it out in sitcom-style shock.

“What?” Bumblebee asked, “Seriously? Clang a ‘ _Con_?”

“Ex-Con.” Smokescreen corrected.

“Doesn’t matter.” Bumblebee said, “A ‘Con’s a ‘Con as far I’m concerned.” He paused, “Pun definitely not intended. Anyway, Knockout’s not the only ‘Con who’s ‘defected’ when it was convenient. He’s _way_ too much like Starscream for me to trust him.”

“Well constructed?”

“Independent.”

Smokescreen frowned. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“It is when it comes to backstabbing ‘Cons.” Bumblebee would never forget all the problems Starscream simultaneously solved and caused when he was ‘independent’, before crawling back to Megatron. As to why Megatron never dismantled the traitorous mech was a mystery Bumblebee _didn’t_ want to uncover. Primus forbid what he would learn delving into _that_ twisted relationship.

“Sounds like you’re ending things before they even take off.” Smokescreen folded his arms. “Call me shareware, but I think if a fellow ‘bot has a good paint job, a full compartment, and a lack of rust mites, they’re fair game.”

Bumblebee smirked. “Okay, shareware.”

Smokescreen lobbed a near-ancient datapad at Bumblebee’s helm. Luckily for Bumblebee, Smokescreen didn’t have Ratchet’s aim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Atmospherized' isn't a real word but it should be. --BA


	4. Knockout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: emetophobia/vomiting, discussion of depression and suicide after "Then his HUD filled with a large, message"

> **The best way to resolve any mechanical problem is to just look in the damn manual.** **It’s the one of the many advantages giant alien robots have over organics.**

Knockout wasn’t irritable. He just wanted some space. Alright, he didn’t actually _want_ space. What he _really_ wanted was to be on Earth or an equally nice terrestrial planet with wide roads and no one to bother him for miles. Yeah, Cybertron was home and had energon but _slag_ , was it boring! Everything was in ruins which meant all the roads were pitted or broken from small border skirmishes to city-wide bombings.

All Knockout wanted was the wind caressing his alt-mode and a gentle, non-finish-damaging rain rolling down his sides. He wanted long, empty interstates and abandoned mall parking lots to do donuts in. He wanted no Autobots or Decepticons. Just speed being the only thing that mattered.

Slag, he was getting sappy again which mean—yup. As if on cue, Knockout’s HUD was disturbed with pop-ups. System alerts layered over each other, nagging various warnings. Low fuel. High oil pressure. High temperature. Proximity warnings. Hazard warnings. Oil quality warning. Mineral depletion. Suspension tension too high. _Blah, blah, blah._

Knockout was sick of looking at it, or rather he was sick of the particular color and the alert pings. Some cruel forger made his warning HUD a nauseating green and orange so that it would draw the optic, as well as make it barely translucent so it was hard to ignore.

**Warning: radiator fluid quality below acceptable range. Recommendation:--**

Knockout rolled an optic and dismissed the warnings one by one. In another minute they’d pop up again, but he would have clear visual for now. He still hadn’t figured out how to disable the warnings entirely, which had caused him to go on a search for his model manual. He was certain Starscream had found a way to disable to block them during his time as an ‘independent’.

So, Knockout indulged in yet another unscheduled break. It wasn’t as if the Autobots had him on a tight leash. As long the red mech didn’t leave the _Nemesis_ (rename pending), the Autobots were rather lax on him. The only reason for that was also because there was no one else. The Vehicons, as a whole, were designed to be no more intelligent than a high-end human computer and they still had no idea what was stored where on the _Nemesis_ , from deadly traps to database passwords. Knockout didn’t know about the latter, but he’s had to scrape up plenty of Vehicon remains from trap-related mishaps.

At least he was allowed a habsuite of his own. Knockout’s new habsuite was mostly dust and old furniture, as it had—at one point—belonged to Soundwave. Since his various upgrades and patches, Soundwave rarely recharged and spent most of his time plugged into the communications array. The habsuite had been more of a formality at that point, something always given to the third-in-command whether used or not. Still, it was better than having to bunk with Vehicons or other ‘bots.

And Knockout’s old habsuite was…

Well…

Out of the question. Not that it was a big deal. He just didn’t feel like staying in there anymore. That was all there was to it.

“New alignment, new me, new hab,” Knockout said. Out loud. To no one in his habsuite because he was totally alone now.

Two more warnings popped up and Knockout went about his typical ritual for unscheduled breaks. He took out two rust sticks he commandeered from the commissary and laid on his berth. It was too long and narrow for his widening frame, but new berths weren’t falling out of the sky. The Vehicons, who were used to recharging standing up or inside tanks, were finally given berths and now things were in short supply. An idiotic attempt by the Autobots to make things ‘equal’ and one they absolutely refused to be talked out of.

Knockout couldn’t fathom their reasoning it but didn’t argue. The Vehicons couldn’t genuinely appreciate the gesture, lacking notions of comfort or taste. They were cloned soldiers; giving them living quarters was akin to humans doing the same for their Roombas or vacuum cleaners. To add to the ridiculousness, the Autobots insisted that the drones also have proper designations. Knockout doubted that even a genius like Shockwave could wrap his processor around such idiocy.

Three more warnings popped up. Knockout minimized them. He chewed on his rust stick and stared at the ceiling. He was exhausted but too tired to easily slip into recharge. He needed something to busy his servos. He looked around his subspace, only to realized something was missing: his datapad.

Frag, did he leave it with Ratchet? The medbay was on the other side of the damn ship and Knockout wasn’t going to crawl out of berth for nothing short of the restart of the Cybertronian Civil War or a nearby explosion.

He tried offlining his optics. The darkness did help him ignore the warnings. His processor started to drift--

_Grrrrr-rrrr-rrr_

\--which was when gears inside of him decided to start grinding. Knockout was used to the occasional growl but this grinding was certainly louder. His tank gave a nervous twitch, as if a new fuel line just woke up.

Just as Knockout onlined his optics, the door opened and flooded the dark habsuite with bright lights from the hall. Knockout hissed, immediately covering his faceplate with his talon. Cursed the Autobots and their need for brightly lights! Whatever happened to mood lighting or ‘turning it down a notch’, even?

“Knockout! Where the pit have you been?” Ratchet yelled.

“Where I currently am.” Knockout grumbled. His tank was still twitching. It didn’t hurt but it was steadily becoming far more irritating than the HUD warnings. 

“I’ve been looking for you all over this ship! A deranged cyber-monkey designed this thing’s layout!” The Autobot medic strolled over to Knockout and grabbed his arm, “Why is your comm switched off? I’ve been hailing you for the past twenty minutes!”

Had his comm been switched off? Knockout was rarely comm’d for anything short of an emergency broadcast and he had no access to the main Autobot servers or private comm channels. With all the warnings popping up and his attempts to circumvent/ignore said errors, it was likely Knockout had turned _something_ off. Last week he turned off his left audial without even knowing it and nearly turned his optics orange. Not that orange was a bad look, but it wasn’t _him._

“I’m just recharging—would you slow down?” Knockout muttered. Sitting up was only making him feel dizzy on top of his exhaustion. His tank gave another twinge and this time it definitely hurt.

Then his HUD filled with a large, message that swallowed most of his vision.

**Critical Error: Tank purge imminent!**

Knockout managed a “Wait” and the twitching pain in his sank transformed into a painful cramp. It was all the warning he got before purging onto the floor. Ratchet, with his years of dealing with sick mechs, managed to get away from the ‘splash zone’. Knockout remained doubled over, hunched and holding his abdomen as everything emptied out. It didn’t last long but it still hurt, because tank purges were always the last measure of ailing systems.

After it was over, Knockout wiped his lip plate. He hissed when his arm-armor scratched against his lip but was far too tired to care. What was one more little scuff at this point?

“Frag.” Knockout grumbled, “I fragging _told_ you to slow down—you never slow down and everything just moves---too fast-and then it’s all…frag…” His processor was starting to throb. No way was he going to be able recharge his mood away this time around. 

“Alright, take it slow.” Ratchet stepped around the mess and helped ease Knockout back onto the berth. He made sure the red mech laid on his side, with his helm angled slightly off the berth’s edge. “Lay on your side, or you’ll choke if you purge again.”

“I’m still functioning.” Knockout growled. Moments like this made him wish he had more bass in his voice so his threats meant something, rather than sound like a petulant mechling dealing with constant patch updates. As if to heap on the misery, HUD messages returned, now warning about his empty fuel tank.

“You won’t be if this keeps up.” Ratchet answered but his optics were looking over the mess that had just been ejected from Knockout’s frame. “You’re purging not just energon but minerals too…” The blue optics looked at Knockout, “How long has this been going on?”

Knockout could do a quick search through his memory banks, but his processor refused to cooperate. Between the purging, annoying pop-ups, and exhaustion, the mech just wasn’t up to remembering how long he’d been dealing with…a _variety_ of situations.

“Minerals,” Knockout murmured, “that’s…the green stuff, right?”

“It _can_ be green, yes.” Ratchet acknowledged with a tired sigh well-known to every medic. “Knockout, listen. I know what it’s like to go through a billion years of war. You start to think all the little aches and pains don’t matter, that _you_ don’t matter as long as your side wins or you survive another day after dealing with tyrants and maniacs. But…ending it _isn’t_ the answer.”

Knockout reset his optics and slowly looked at the other mech.

“ _What_ in the actual frag are you talking about?” Knockout asked.

“I’m talking about _this_ , Knockout!” Ratchet removed a datapad from his subspace and shoved it in his faceplate. Knockout recognized the scratches on the surface from his less cautious moments of swiping.

“You went through my pad?” Knockout snatched the pad and subspaced it, “That’s a violation of my privacy, _doctor_!”

“Need I remind you that since you’re technically still a prisoner?” Ratchet said, “I don’t make it a habit of prying into the personal lives of the mechs under my command, but when it comes to processor health--”

“ _Stop_. Brakes on. Red light. Whatever works on you ‘Bots.”

“Knockout--”

“Listen! To! _Me_!” Knockout tried to stand but the room gave an uneasy swoon, not unlike that time Soundwave accidentally got into the bootleg high-grade and nearly flew the _Nemesis_ into a small sun.

“I am not suicidal.” he continued, “Frag it, Ratchet! I’m the most self-loving, self-serving bot you could ever encounter! Life is a slagshow right now but I still _enjoy_ it! I was looking at my frame manual because I need to deactivate my HUD. Its full of these nagging pop-ups.”

Ratchet frowned. He looked less alarmed but still concerned and mildly annoyed, which may as well be the Autobot’s default status. “Knockout, your HUD is hardcoded into your processor. Attempting to disable it, especially while you’re conscious, would be like giving yourself a lobotomy. Whatever illness your systems is detecting, it’s worth investigating rather than ignoring.”

Knockout grumbled, refusing to meet the older mech’s optics.

“Knockout, we’re not going to throw you out the airlock just because you’re sick.” Ratchet added.

“We only tossed Vehicons.” Knockout said, “Eradicons. Whatever they’re called.” The glare that Ratchet gave him could have sent a shudder down Unicron’s backstrut. “Kidding! _Kidding_! Shockwave’s little experiments were far too valuable to scrap in that… _manner_.”

“Questionable Decepticon ethics notwithstanding,” Ratchet grumbled, “you can still talk to me about your illness--”

Knockout groaned and wondered how much longer this conversation was going to last. The HUD was becoming more irritable, demanding he refill his tanks, check his oil, or accomplish one of the hundred other demands he had been ignoring since this began.

“The only ‘illness’ I’m suffering from is compiling and there’s only a single fix for that!” Knockout griped.

Ratchet stared at the red mech.

“Hm. Compiling.” Ratchet said, “I see.

Knockout frowned.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” Knockout asked.

“I, well,” Ratchet sputtered, “just because I’m a medic doesn’t mean I have a dictionary of every disease known throughout the galaxy at my digit-tips.” The Autobot medic said this but his optics were flickering, indicating he _was_ currently searching through the Autobot database for matching terminology.

“You can’t be _that_ outdated, old mech.” Knockout scoffed, “Splitted up? Got one in the forge? In factory ready condition? I’m a self-made blacksmith?”

“I’m a medic, not a Decepticon dialect expert--”

“I’m going to have a fragging _sparkling_ , you ancient idiot!” and suddenly Knockout understood why Starscream was so short-tempered. If all you had to deal with were idiots, it was bound to grate on your wires after a while.

“Oh.” Ratchet murmured. Then ten seconds later, he added, “Oh. Oh, frag _! Frag me!”_

“No, frag _me._ ” Knockout said, with a smirk.


	5. Ratchet

> **In Knockout’s defense his reproduction control didn’t mention anything** **about how it would react to temporary molecular instability**

After such a revelation (followed by an irritating pun from Knockout), Ratchet nearly flung his wrench at the red mech. Then he remembered the mech’s—condition? situation? fragged-up mess?—and refrained. In all honesty, this was the last situation Ratchet had hoped to deal with. For a lot of reasons. If Ratchet had his wish, he would simply go “Welp, not my problem” and exit the habsuite and the situation entirely. Perhaps relocate to an isolated moon for a couple millennia and hope the whole thing blew over.

But if Ratchet did that, he wouldn’t be an Autobot. So with a sigh, he comm’d one of the Vehicons—well, Vehibots technically—to come clean up the mess in Knockout’s habsuite, as the _Nemesis_ (rename pending) lacked cleaning drones along with other basic spaceship necessities.

“Either way, we need to get to medbay so I can look at your…internals.” Ratchet said.

“Do we seriously have to go all the way to the other side of the ship so you can poke around my valve?” Knockout grumbled, “And I can clean up my own mess. I’m not a sparkling.”

“Protoform. And I’ll be doing more than just looking around your undercarriage.” Ratchet said, “Purging minerals is an early sign of starvation, which means your systems aren’t getting the nutrients they need to support the…updates, you’re going through. I need to investigate how taxed your systems currently are.”

Knockout waved a servo, as if Ratchet was a hysterical mentor sobbing over their charge. “You Autobots are so _coddled_. Like you’ve never dealt with just a _tiny_ bit of starvation before. It builds _character_.”

“Stop griping. I’m giving you a lift,” Ratchet said, “unless you _want_ a Vehicon escort.”

Knockout grunted but, as Ratchet expected, the red mech was unwilling to let anyone else help. ‘Cons were always determined to maintain the illusion of their privacy, even with Soundwave’s tendrils worming their way into everything.

Knockout is quiet for most of the drive back to the medbay. Ratchet makes sure to drive as slow as possible so the mech doesn’t purge. It makes the trip longer, but Ratchet uses the time to sift through the Autobot medical database server--flagging files related to handling carrying mechs, protoforms, newbuilds, care methods and _sweet_ _Primus_ , this was already annoying him. The protoform wasn’t even out of Knockout’s forge and it was making Ratchet multitask like an archivist struggling against a looming deadline.

It’s a brief reprieve because examining Knockout is a greater chore than Ratchet anticipated. Not because the red mech’s neural ports are unusable or gunked up like the medic expected, but that plugging Knockout in floods Ratchet’s analysis tablet with mountains of errors.

“Primus! It’s a miracle you’re still _walking_ , Knockout!” Ratchet scrolled through the errors, trying to decipher which had the most priority. “How long has this been going on?” Knockout’s shrug only served to irritate him further, “How can you _not_ know? You’re a _medic_!”

“In case you failed to notice, the _Nemesis_ isn’t exactly the pinnacle of Cybertronian technology and we’re not the Elite Guard.” Knockout said, sounding terribly bored despite being a malfunctioning, malnourished mess. “For ‘Cons energon came in drips on the best of days and had questionable quality and…sourcing. So errors pop up. A lot. Usually it’s just gunk caked up in the joints, intake, and vents. Harmless unless you develop recharge apnea and even that doesn’t affect your aim, so no big deal.”

_“No big_ _deal_?” Ratchet’s jaw joint clicked from unhinging. “Knockout, obstructive recharge apnea stresses and scars the oil filter, not to mention it can result in abnormal behavior regarding main and internal memory storage units, output units, the central processor, along with fatigue, irritation, and poor decision making…” The medic paused his rant as his processor caught up with him, “…actually that explains a _lot_ about you ‘Cons.”

“Explains what?”

"Skip it.” Ratchet decided that was another subject to put in the dossier regarding everyone’s quality of life aboard the _Nemesis._ “You still haven’t told me how long you’ve known about this.”

“Two…months?” Then Knockout’s mouth twisted downward, “Three? No, wait, was it before or after the whole phased-into-the-wall thing…?” The red mech lowered his helm as he pondered.

Ratchet slapped his faceplate. “How can you _not know_ if you’re carrying a protoform? That should be the _first_ thing on your HUD should alert you!”

“It’s not my fault!” Knockout threw up his servos. “Between dark energon, Unicron, the war ending, Unicron again, being a prisoner, and then being a not-prisoner, things have been haywire! I only got the lights to function in my habsuite last week. I haven’t had the time off to go ‘Huh, I wonder if my reproduction control is still functioning?’ My systems must’ve buried the process so I didn’t know what was happening until I realized I was burning through my energon.”

So, essentially, Knockout ignored it until he felt hungry. It was just like a young mech to ignore a situation until it went critical.

Still, Ratchet had other worries about why Knockout would suddenly be so hesitant about the mess. “And the progenitor—I mean, _sire_ —are they--”

“Dead.”

Ratchet’s optics were not on the analysis tablet but on Knockout’s faceplate. Ratchet had expected some hesitation to the words, a flicker of emotion, but there was nothing. The optics that had been offlined for most of the plug-in scan shuttered open but they’re clear, lacking coolant or any other indicator of grief. Knockout’s frame is incredibly still, as if he’s even afraid to breathe. Ratchet has a mountain of questions about the nature of said relationship (let alone the identity), but also knows enough about ‘Cons that such things are complicated in their military organization/subculture/terrorist cell.

“I need to check your internals.” Ratchet said, which was shifting his focus from one worry to another.

“You’re wasting time, dear doctor.” The rigidity that had seized Knockout melted away and the red mech rolled onto his side, posing like he would for a sultry pin-up. “Trust me, it’s _way_ too late for a safe transfer. With all this extra mass I’ve packed on, you wouldn’t be able to get at my forge without a lot of danger. And chainsaws.”

Now Ratchet was equal parts suspicious and concerned, which (as experience had taught him) was never a good mix in the medical profession. “You’ve dealt with this type of…compiling…before?”

Knockout tilted his helm with his patented _I know something you don’t_ grin. “You haven’t?”

“It’s not…common among Autobots.” Official Autobot policy was to extract or terminate as early as possible. Reproduction control was encouraged and even mandated among certain divisions, like the Wreckers. 

“It’s not like I planned it this way.” Knockout continued, “As I said before, things were crazy. I’d be looking into how to do a self-extraction with minimal pain and here comes the Second in Command with something lodged in his valve. _Again._ ”

Now it was Ratchet’s turn to tilt his helm. He shouldn’t encourage Knockout’s love of gossip, especially of the defeated and potentially deceased, but if he didn’t ask the curiosity would gnaw at him for the rest of his life, so…“That happen often?”

“More than you think. Starscream’s size kink is…well, you could write a whole psychological profile on _that_ alone. You should’ve seen what happened when Starscream first saw Omega Supreme back in Vos. Skywarp and Thundercracker had to dogpile him so he wouldn’t try to ‘make friends’ and land himself in the hospital. Again.” Knockout shuddered. “I’m scared for all the large-framed warbuilds now that he’s off Megatron’s leash.”

“But most of your army were large warbuilds….”

“And that was _always_ part of the problem.” Knockout sighed, “We’d get a new bulky recruit whose alt was a tank or a shuttle and uh oh, here comes Starscream wondering if they were forged or cold constructed so he can figure out when they were made and what kind of input array they had and oh great, here comes Megatron to drag away Starscream before he can scare off the new recruit…” The red mech sat up as slowly as he could. “If I’m only here to discuss the sex lives of my ex-superiors, I’d rather do it over a cube of energon and maybe with my pedes up.”

“ _Eyp eyp eyp!_ We’re _not_ done here!” Ratchet and pushed the red mech back onto the examining berth. “I still need a look at that protoform to figure out how far along you actually are and what kind of frame you’ll be lugging around.”

“It’s a grounder.” Knockout muttered, glaring at the other medic.

“There are different types of _terrestrial-inclined alt-mode Cybertronians_.” Ratchet emphasized the proper, non-caste influenced terms.

Compared to patients Ratchet had dealt with in the past, Knockout was the third best. He didn’t complain about temperature or bombard him with a lot of questions. He was strangely quiet and still which was a relief and a concern to Ratchet regarding the mouthy defector.

“For someone of your frame shape, your valve is unusually narrow.” Ratchet said, “Have you had any upgrades down here?”

“What am I: the latest model for high-caste free-to-play?” Knockout scoffed, “Click here to spend your shanix on a lootbox that might contain new vid of my spike and valve in 4K.”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “I wasn’t implying that--”

“I always trim down mass with each upgrade. A kilo here, a kilo there. Made handling easier. I didn’t use the interface often, so I took it from where it didn’t matter.”

“You could have circumvented that by just removing it entirely.” It wasn’t unheard of for some bots to forego the entire set-up for speed, functionality, or misanthropy. “But you kept your factorial forge, your transfluid bank, and all your other reproductive parts. You didn’t suffer an injury either.” Ratchet’s own forge had taken a stray blast from a shell. He was lucky he didn’t bleed out right then and there, but the organ was wrecked beyond repair.

Knockout scowled, “My baffler was working fine until your good pal Smokescreen phased me into a damn wall! When I got out—no thanks to _you_ , ‘Bots—it must’ve jostled. It’d been doing its job for the past….uh…” The red mech counted on his talons. “…five hundred years? Ish?”

“Knockout. You’re supposed to change those out every century.”

“…change?”

“Oh my Primus!” Ratchet groaned and if his servo wasn’t currently in Knockout’s valve, he would’ve slapped his faceplate. “For all I know you had a hunk of steel wool wrapped around a gold ingot jammed up there like this is the Copper Age and you’re some Praxian noble still pretending to still have his seal!”

“The store warranty said different!” Knockout paused. “Wait, _where_ did I buy my reproduction control? Was it Walgreenalite?” The mech’s expression was now that of genuine worry.

Ratchet opened his mouth to question how the ‘Cons were not dealing with a boatload of newbuilds but then reconsidered what he had recently learned. Rampant recharge apnea would not just erode a bot’s mental stability but heap on other errors as well. Factor in the lack of nutrition and their frames would enter into a low-grade starvation mode, prioritizing the most basic functions and diverting from unused systems, like reproduction.

“Going by the size of your protoform, I would say it’s in the middle of stage one,” Ratchet said, “but if what you say about the timing of conception is true, that means it’s actually _smaller_ than it should be. Odds are that you were—well, you’re still malnourished—but the improvement in energon kept you from entirely reabsorbing the spark and the protoform mass. From now on, you’re under my care. I’m not going to have one of my subordinates or any newbuilds starve on my watch.”

“Oh great. The mentor I _never_ wanted.” Knockout grumbled.


	6. Bumblebee

> **Arcee is that person with the big billboard with all the pictures and strings** **connecting every little thing that’s going on. If she didn’t know better, she’d think** **Cybertron was flat and that the lizard Beasticons ran the High Council.**

“I’m just gonna say it: clones.” Arcee said.

“Clones?” Bumblebee asked, “You’ve seen Optimus Prime walk out of death-defying situations time and time again and all you can say is ‘clones’?”

They sat in the commissary which had been the mess, a lounge, and a secret armory. Bulkhead, with the aid of the Vehicons, knocked down the walls to make the room less claustrophobic and to put in additional furniture, energon dispensaries, and entertainment. The entertainment--which consisted of a foosball game, a pool table, and a TV for movie night--had been Smokescreen’s idea for putting the Vehicons at ease. The Vehicons, still mostly unexposed to human culture, were wary of everything except the TV.

Bumblebee honestly enjoyed the commissary when it was at its least busy. The humans were great, but they could also be exhausting. Now that Bumblebee was a commander, he let Smokescreen and Bulkhead run after the guests while he took a commissary break with Arcee and Wheeljack. Dealing with the _Nemesis’_ (rename pending) annoying communications system had burnt Bumblebee’s morning energon ration and it _still_ wasn’t fixed.

“Remember the Battle of Epsilon?” Arcee said, “Optimus was obliterated but then he came back because someone tried cloning him.”

“Or that time Megatron used his new Hydra Cannon and it collapsed Optimus into a singularity?” Wheeljack said.

“Or that time Optimus piloted that bomb-equipped stasis pod to destroy that Planet Buster and he imploded?”

“Or when Grindor shot Optimus through the chassis and he _exploded,_ and we had to jumpstart his frame with a car battery?”

“Was that before or after that timestorm tore him in half and those Predacons ate the bottom part?”

“No, this was when Optimus was torn apart _horizontally_. You’re thinking of the time he was torn in half _vertically_ \--”

“Okay, so Optimus dies _a lot,_ ” Bumblebee admitted, “but you can’t expect me to believe its _clones_. You’re telling me every time Optimus gets blown up, tossed into another timeline, imploded, or eaten, the ancient Primes inside the Matrix go ‘Whelp, better send out another one’ and they pull a lever and churn out a newly built Optimus from their quantum-whatsit factory and send him out to take the old Optimus’s place?”

Arcee nodded. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Bumblebee slapped his faceplate. “The Matrix isn’t even _big_ enough to spit out a bot of Optimus’s size! I could lob that thing across the ship if I wanted.”

“Mass displacement,” Arcee said.

“That’s your excuse for everything!” Bumblebee huffed.

“What if it’s like…save states? Like the game emulator on Raf’s phone?” Wheeljack asked, “Somehow, the Matrix pauses time and saves Optimus’s consciousness right before he dies--”

“Autobot Code 35-D, subsection L-98,” Bumblebee said, “we don’t discuss, experiment with, or think too hard about time travel because the nature of time travel means that such actions could potentially cause an instability that could have drastic effects to our current timeline. Also known as the _‘Don’t Worry About It’_ Clause.”

Wheeljack sank in his chair with a scowl. “Ultra Magnus wrote that clause _specifically_ to annoy me.”

“You and Perceptor.” Arcee looked at Bumblebee, “All I’m saying is that there _has_ to be a method to Optimus’s ability to tell death to frag off. Pit, we’re betting on when he’s coming back. Which, by the way…” Her optics flickered as the femme linked up to the Autobot server and the betting app that had been covertly installed in one of the files. “…Wheeljack, your odds are looking worse and worse. Unless you want to lose out of 500 F-Credits, I suggest you change to the winning side.”

“No way, girl.” Wheeljack shook his helm with a wide grin. “I’ve been betting Optimus’ mortality before you were constructed. Optimus is gonna show as soon as possible. I got a feeling in my carburetor.”

“That the same carburetor that fixed the ship’s engine?” Arcee snorted.

Wheeljack’s grin of confidence transformed into a scowl so quickly Bumblebee was surprised his facial plate didn’t crack. “Hey, I’m the best damn engineer we got! It’s not my fault this ship’s an ancient hunk of junk!”

A message popped up on Bumblebee’s HUD.

 **[BB, I need you in medbay.]** it said. The message was in Ratchet’s bland red and white color scheme. It wasn’t labeled as urgent, but Bumblebee was glad for the distraction from the increasing stupidity of the conversation.

“Alright, back to the grind.” Bumblebee said and stood. Arcee and Wheeljack barely acknowledged his exit as they continued bickering about the _Nemesis_ and its fluctuating power.

As the commissary wasn’t too far from the medbay, Bumblebee didn’t have to rush. He changed into his alt-mode and took a leisurely drive. After being on Earth for so long, he still wasn’t used to his Cybertronian alt-mode. Compared to an Earth vehicle, it was heavily armored and the tougher Cybertronian-sourced rubber that made the tires had a strange bounce to them. Ratchet insisted that the feeling would fade with time, citing Bumblebee’s complaints as typical new-alt dysphoria.

Bumblebee doesn’t expect death or dismemberment in the medbay. It’s likely that Ratchet uncovered some minor disaster looming on the horizon, like another ‘Con engineered virus or a zombot lurking in the bowels of the ship. However, he didn’t expect to see Knockout lying on the medical berth, plugged into the scanner while Ratchet engaged in his default state: nag.

“—which means no more sneaking rust sticks at all hours!” Ratchet added, “From now, you’ll need nutritionally dense, mineral rich foods and since we don’t have the rations for it energon-wise, we’ll have to use supplements: bismuth, copper, and selenium just to start off. Your healing nanites are lagging so we’re going to jumpstart them with some injections. That should undo _some_ of the damage you’ve already done by being a neglectful idiot.”

“We wouldn’t be having this issue if you would let me at the syringes…” Knockout said but his red optics widened as Ratchet reached for one of the locked cabinets. Bumblebee swore he saw a glimmer in the defector’s optics as Ratchet pulled out a tray of shiny, clean syringes.

“ _Ohhhhh_ no.” Ratchet said, “I was on this ship long enough as a captive to recognize _someone_ has an unhealthy attachment to sharp objects.”

Knockout folded his arms. “Oh, so when _you_ like something it’s an ‘interest’ but when _I_ like something it’s an ‘unhealthy attachment’.”

Under a normal situation, this would have been when Bumblebee backed out of the medbay but then Knockout saw him.

“ _Oh_ _my_.” Knockout purred, “Don’t tell me you called tall, yellow, and beepy to hold me down while you give me some shots?”

“About time, Bumblebee.” Ratchet said but he was looking through the syringes and frowning.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Knockout asked. His optics were narrowed, still flirtatious.

“Trust me: the pleasure’s _only_ yours.” Bumblebee grunted.

“For now.” Knockout said with a grin.

“Stow it the both of you.” Ratchet said. He put down the syringes and pointed to Knockout, “This one’s gone and got himself with an extra spark.”

Bumblebee looked at Knockout. Knockout looked back. Bumblebee then looked at Ratchet for the punchline to this joke, but the older mech’s response was his usual grumpy stare.

“You mean, like a split off?” Bumblebee asked.

Knockout’s look of flirtation was quickly replaced by irritation.

“I’m _compiling,_ you idiot!” Knockout groaned, “What is with you Autobots and _not_ getting this? You still have your spikes and valves, right? Or am I talking to a bunch of Unix systems?”

“You can’t be…what?” Just to be on the safe side, Bumblebee reset his audials. He had never heard the term before, but he was certain he had seen it written down…somewhere. Maybe. “Compiling? You mean…” His processor churned, putting together Knockout’s exasperation, the comments about reproductive parts, and Ratchet’s statement about an extra spark. “Like…for a protoform? Like a protoform _inside_ you?”

It sounded suspiciously like a prank, or some poorly thought out science experiment only someone with Shockwave’s questionable ethics would engage in. Bumblebee knew that humans made protoforms inside their frames, but they weren’t human. Pit, they weren’t even _organic_! Cybertronian sparks were harvested from the Well and the metals that made up their protoforms were mined or created in a lab. Anything else was…an accident. A weird, _weird_ accident.

“That…can’t be true…?” Bumblebee’s proto-education had been spotty but he was more than certain that wasn’t how Cybertronians were made. He looked at Ratchet for clues as to where this--prank? science experiment?—was headed.

“I can’t believe this.” Knockout said, “What do you even think a factorial forge is _for?_ ”

“It’s, well, a leftover.” Bumblebee murmured, “Kind of like with humans and the appendix. It’s a vestigial part. It doesn’t do anything. It’s not something you… _think_ about. Or use. _Ever_.”

Primus, _Bumblebee_ didn’t like to think about his factorial forge. Interfacing was one thing but thinking about the internals and…. _potentials_ were another. It just wasn’t the sort of thing bots talked about, aside from having a function threatening infection or parasite housed in there. Then you talked about it in private, with your medic, and hoped no one else would overhear the problem.

“This is fragging weird…wait, why did you call me to deal with this?” A nervous thought struck Bumblebee so hard, he swore his tank was going to drop out of his frame. “Don’t tell me you think _I’m_ the progenitor?”

“Absolutely not!” Knockout barked.

“ _Hey_!” Bumblebee had expected Knockout to entertain the idea for a few flirtatious seconds, if only for the purpose of annoying Bumblebee. Instead, the red mech looked even more offended about the idea. “I would be a _great_ progenitor!”

“You barely understand what compiling _is_ ,” Knockout said. Bumblebee was about to protest but the red mech continued, “and I’m not about to claim some Autobot decided to use my valve as their playground while I was in the brig, like this is a poorly written episode of _As the Kitchen Sinks._ ” Knockout’s talon fondly stroked his abdomen, “The sire is… _was_ a ‘ _Con_.”

Bumblebee should have been relieved to not have to deal with any progenitor-related shenanigans…but he was still annoyed at the quick rejection. What made Knockout’s choice of progenitor so great when compared to an Autobot? Most of the ‘Cons were dead or had switched sides fast enough to make even Starscream’s helm spin. At least an Autobot would have a sense of loyalty toward the carrier of their weird offspring and not leave them out to dry.

Bumblebee looked at Ratchet for some sense of comradeship regarding Knockout’s sire preferences but the old mech had already moved from the medical berth. Ratchet walked to the medbay door panel and pressed it, changing it from green to red. Open entry to locked.

“Enough fooling around.” Ratchet closed the gap between Bumblebee, Knockout, and himself. “The reason I asked you to come here, Bumblebee, is not only because you’re a commander but that compared to other Autobots, you have one of the better deception modules.”

“ _Deception_ modules? We just call it lying our afts off.” Knockout said with a grin. He slowly sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the berth. “Are you Autobots _actually_ afraid of a sparkling? Something that’s dumber than a rock and fits in your servo? Ooh, wait! Are you going to start calling them ‘hands’ like your organic pals?”

“This isn’t a _joke_ , Knockout.” Ratchet said. The old medic’s mouth was tight, and his optics were pinpoints. He was serious, or more serious than was usual. “It’s not the protoform that makes me uneasy; it’s what it represents. With the war ended and a replenishment of energon, that means Cybertronian bodies will be able to revert to…an ancient means of reproduction. That also changes the…terms.”

“The terms of what?” Knockout asked.

Ratchet looked at Bumblebee, as if a stare could will the yellow mech’s processor to catch up with what the old Autobot meant. It took Bumblebee several seconds, but his processor clicked into place.

“Oh, slag.” Bumblebee muttered, “The Galactic Counsel. I…” He swallowed as his intake tightened. “With the war going on and being stuck on Earth…I had forgotten all _about_ them.”

“The what now?” Knockout asked.

Ratchet exhaled. Bumblebee had hoped he could avoid a history lesson, but it looked like he was getting a refresher.

“Knockout, have you ever wondered about the rest of the galaxy?” Ratchet said, “Outside of Earth and Cybertron that is.”

“No.” Knockout said, “By the time I was forged, the bridges were quarantined from the cybonic plague and the Functionists on the High Council were promoting isolationism. They were getting ready to ‘retire’ all off-planet alts when the war broke out.”

“Same.” Bumblebee remembered even less of that time. At the creche he and the other young mechs had been ‘gently encouraged’ to pick a ground alt-mode rather than a flight one. When Bumblebee settled on an alt, the war was already beginning.

“So much for the public educational system. Or what was _left_ of it after the Functionists got to it.” Ratchet sighed, “Alright, so we know aliens besides humans exist, right?”

Bumblebee and Knockout nodded.

“Well, the galaxy is huge and our war has been going on for…let’s say a _bit_ longer than the other galactic species prefer,” Ratchet continued, “Our war also has a _lot_ of collateral and a habit of pulling other aliens into it, especially the ones that want to sell us bigger and better weapons to murder each other. Add onto this problem are the other aliens that are tired of our war and have weaponry that could easily kill all of us with a flick of the switch. Still, no one wants to commit _direct_ interplanetary commit genocide so the neutral Cybertronians struck up a… _deal_ with the Galactic Counsel.”

“A…deal?” Knockout murmured.

“The deal is this,” Ratchet said, “we keep to our half of the galaxy and everyone else keeps to theirs. We _do not_ cross that line unless we want the Galactic Counsel to murder all of us with a Galaxy Bomb or Black Hole Canon or whatever else they’ve cooking up in those black-ops science labs they pretend don’t exist.”

“No way.” Knockout shook his helm. “Megatron is a dark energon addicted manic but he’d _never_ agree to that. That’s segregation, not to mention isolationism. And there’s no way he’d agree with organics.”

“Not just organics.” Ratchet said. Knockout frowned and the old mech chuckled, “What? You thought _we_ were the only mechanoid species? We’re just the most infamous. In fact, the existence of _other_ mechanoid aliens was why the High Council became isolationist. They couldn’t promote their viewpoint if there were other shape changing, function-disregarding species. It wasn’t until the Siege of Iacon and the High Council were dead that the Autobots learned of the Bubble contract.”

“Interesting that Megatron didn’t mention _any_ of this to you.” Bumblebee said to Knockout.

“If Megatron cared anything about the truth, the war would’ve only lasted ten years.” Knockout folded his arms. “What does this have to do with _me_?”

“I’m _getting_ to that,” Ratchet growled, “We can’t let Ultra Magnus know about Knockout’s condition.”

“What?” Now _this_ was news to Bumblebee. He had thought Knockout’s condition would change the terms of his semi-imprisonment or his impending trial. “What does Magnus have to do with this? He’s not the stuck-up afthole he used to be. Well, not as _much_.”

“The Bubble contract was made under duress.” Ratchet said, “At the time, there hadn’t been any hotspots on Cybertron, and the old ways of reproduction weren’t occurring enough to offset the war’s body count. The Neutrals and the Galactic Council believed that by leaving us in our own ‘bubble’, we’d either reach peace from a dwindling population…or become functionally extinct. That’s why there are no communications between us, the Neutrals, or any other species. No trade. No passing through. Not even a friendly visit. We’re cut _off_.”

“In other words,” Knockout said, “it’s a damn quarantine and _we’re_ the virus.”

It was an apt description, but it twisted Bumblebee’s tank.

“I guess the Galactic Counsel doesn’t consider it genocide if they just stand by and watch.” Bumblebee muttered.

Ratchet nodded. “And the one watching us is Chief Justice Tyrest whom Ultra Magnus _reports_ to. Tyrest is a spineless puppet. He only survived the High Council pure because he was off planet. He bows to the Galactic Counsel’s every whim, declaring himself neutral to everything but his sense of ‘justice’. They’re essentially Neutrals.”

“That’s not right.” Bumblebee shook his head. “Ultra Magnus and Tyrest are Autobots. They’re with _us_.”

“The people that make up your Autobot ranks were the High Council’s Elite Guards before the war.” Knockout sang out. From the smug look on his face, he’d been sitting on that fact for a while. “Without a Prime, Ultra Magnus’ command defaults to Tyrest. Not you, _commander_.”

The words stung but Bumblebee shook them off.

“Then Tyrest can frag off but Magnus is different.” Bumblebee said. Knockout only smiled and then the yellow mech looked at Ratchet. “Ratchet, Magnus has changed. We’ve all _seen_ it.”

“I…” Ratchet paused, and his optics narrowed. “I won’t deny that Magnus is not the complete piston-head he once was, but I’m not going to deny that he’s still a stickler for the rules. Bumblebee, you were only a scout at the time, so you were never informed about this, but Tyrest—and by extension Ultra Magnus—was never… _pleased_ with how we interacted with humans.”

“What? Why?” Bumblebee asked, “Humans are harmless.”

“MECH would like a word with you.” Knockout snorted.

“ _Relatively_ harmless.” Bumblebee corrected. To this, Knockout rolled his optics.

“Yes. Exactly.” Ratchet said, “Humans are a young, uncontacted organic species; the kind of beings the Galactic Counsel was formed to _protect_ , which is why it was a problem when the Autobots landed on Earth. We were supposed to be _alone_ in our part of the galaxy, the ‘Local Bubble’ as the humans call it. There was some speculation that there was a civilization on Mars but, if it existed, its long since been extinct.”

“How could that be? Humans have been putting out frequencies for years.” Bumblebee said, “Even their space probes pick up old radio broadcasts.”

“Didn’t you learn _anything_ in proto-education?” Knockout said, “Those frequencies are so low it’d be impossible to tell them from all the other background chatter and deep space radiation. Not even Soundwave picks it up unless he’s looking for it.” He smiled smugly, “Even _I_ know that.”

“One of the few things you _do_ know.” Ratchet said. Before Knockout could argue, he continued, “There was supposed to be nothing but dead planets and useless gas giants for our war, but the existence of humans… _changed_ that. Optimus had to have meeting after meeting with Magnus, and Tyrest by extension, about what this meant for the Bubble contract. We got off relatively light, but not without…consequences.”

“What were they?” Bumblebee asked. He didn’t have to wonder where he was during these meetings. When they had crashed on Earth, he was a still mute scout. Experienced in battle but not knowledgeable enough to contribute to a war council or handle intergalactic politics. The meetings must have happened covertly while he was out on energon runs with Bulkhead.

“The Bubble was shrunk,” Ratchet said, “along with the stipulation that both sides remain concealed to humankind as long as possible.”

Knockout made a small _hrm_ in his intake. Bumblebee looked at him and the red mech clarified. “I always wondered why we did that. The disguises, I mean.” he said, “I personally enjoyed my Earth alt-mode, but I questioned why Decepticon high command insisted we go out of our way to avoid revealing ourselves. Why not seize the nearest human power source and convert it to energon production? Or harvest it from the population? Or just bomb the entire _area_ you were squatting in?”

“You didn’t have the firepower to do is why.” Bumblebee growled.

Knockout shrugged. “Yes, but it’s not like the idea hadn’t crossed a few processors. Starscream always went ‘Let’s just set the whole damn region on fire’ and Soundwave always said ‘Illogical’. He even used Shockwave’s voice to emphasize how illogical it was. Either way, Megatron never went for it. It’s obvious now Megatron and Soundwave knew something but never let the rest of us in on it.”

“Not even his Second in Command?” Bumblebee asked. Knockout stared at him and the yellow mech sighed, “Oh yeah…. it’s _Starscream_.”

“Optimus broadcasted the changes in the Bubble contract on a concealed yet easily detected channel,” Ratchet grumbled, “That way Soundwave would detect it and relay it to Megatron. He always called Soundwave the ‘one functioning chip in the motherboard’.”

“He’s not wrong.” Knockout acknowledged.

“But the war is over.” Bumblebee said, “Megatron is gone. Optimus is indisposed for now.”

“There shouldn’t even be a distinction between Autobots and Decepticons by this point.” Knockout said.

“Whoa, let’s not get _crazy_ here.” Bumblebee said, “There’s _plenty_ of distinction--”

“And the Galactic Counsel doesn’t care about any of them.” Ratchet shook his helm. “Autobot? Decepticon? All they see are Cybertronians killing each other. The Counsel only cares about one thing: profit. Our war is bad for their business model because it makes the less durable species wet their collective undercarriages. They’re not going to remove the Bubble because we’re playing nice for now. Do you remember all the peace talks? Because I do. I remember all 9,335 and each one ended in disaster.”

“So, they see us as a bunch of irresponsible protoforms. _Great_.” Bumblebee scoffed.

“The war _was_ a lot like a sparkling’s game that got out of hand.” Knockout muttered.

“Which is why the Galactic Counsel isn’t going to remove the Bubble until they’re _absolutely sure_ this peace will last.” Ratchet said, “As we speak, Ultra Magnus is talking to Tyrest about easing the contracts so we can get trade and industry going. All the Counsel, and Tyrest, know is that the Well of All Sparks is active but without cybermetal, they don’t have to worry about a population boom like during the Golden Age.”

“You mean they don’t have to worry about _colonization_.” Bumblebee said.

“Can’t blame ‘em.” Knockout said, “Until Optimus, Primes ground organics under their heels if they got in the way of mechaforming.”

“Tyrest can apologize and say he’s as forward thinking as the next bot, but at his core he’s a Functionist.” Ratchet said, “The Well of All Sparks being active is fine and dandy, but I bet his fuel-pump would implode if he learned the ancient ways of reproduction were not only viable, but occurring with a defector. I’m not saying it’s the _apocalypse,_ but it could screw things up in the long term for the negotiation. We can’t do step one of rebuilding Cybertron without that afthole Tyrest’s cooperation.”

Bumblebee didn’t quite know what to make of this information. Rather, he didn’t know what to _do_ with this situation. He was used to simple commands—sneak here, shoot this, don’t shoot that—but this was way beyond that. He didn’t wake up this morning expecting to be thrust into the realm of intergalactic politics. He thought about making a wisecrack but couldn’t formulate anything that would be appropriately funny to break the tension. The yellow mech looked at Knockout and realized that the ‘Con had already chosen a reaction: fury.

“Let me get this straight.” Knockout snarled, “You’re telling me that because I’m _compiling_ , it could spiral us back into a war just because the idea of reproduction scares a bunch of _interstellar capitalists?”_

“Yup.” Ratchet said, “That’s about the make of it.”

Knockout clenched his dentae, looked ready to throttle the nearest bot, and then exhaled. He then looked at his abdomen. With all the armor, Bumblebee couldn’t tell that he was even carrying.

“Oh, I _better_ get good gifts for carrier’s day after all this.” Knockout growled at his abdomen.


	7. Ratchet

> **This isn’t Ratchet’s first time hiding a protoform, but typically it involves a trenchcoat** **or passing them off as a minibot. To be honest, most of Ratchet’s solutions to problems** **involve trenchcoats. Its why he was never selected for Special Ops.**

“Ratchet, your concerns are valid but there’s no way this is going to work.” Bumblebee said, “How are we supposed to hide that Knockout is carrying?” He pointed to the red mech’s currently bulky physique. “If this keeps up, he’s going to look like a wall of metal with a tiny head on top.”

“ _Ohhhhh_ no.” Knockout said, “The day I start looking like some crazed batcher hiding a whole squad of sparkling in their chassis is the day I change my alt-mode to…something incredibly slow! Like a _bicycle_.”

“Bicycles aren’t slow.” Bumblebee said, “You’re thinking of a moped.”

“Mopeds have _engines_! How can they be slower than a _bike_?”

“Stop arguing about the speed of vehicles we don’t even use!” Ratchet said and that managed to quiet the two (though Ratchet was sure this wasn’t the last time he would hear this argument). “The hope is that as Knockout displaces more mass, it’ll distract from what’s going on in his…abdominal region.”

“Can’t we just say he’s fat and call it a day?” Bumblebee groaned.

Ratchet had enough practice as both a medical expert and a soldier to grab Knockout before he tackled Bumblebee. The red mech had already transformed one of his arms into a chainsaw. Even though Knockout was smaller, it took all of Ratchet’s strength to keep him from attacking the former scout.

“You tell _anyone_ I’m fat and I’ll make sure you can only use your spike as a strictly plug-and-play interface!” Knockout shrieked.

“It’s the most plausible explanation!” Bumblebee insisted over the loud whirr of Knockout’s blade. The mech stepped back, making sure a wheeled cabinet of medical supplies were between him and the raging ex-Con. 

“For frag’s sake, Bumblebee!” Ratchet said, “Please, _do not_ antagonize the carrying mech! The last thing we want is for him to go into an early emergence related to stress!”

“It doesn’t work like that!” Knockout insisted.

“It can still happen!” Ratchet said.

“Ugh, _enough_ of this!” Knockout wrenched himself out of Ratchet’s arms and reconfigured his arm back to standard form. “My pedes are killing me, I haven’t recharged in two days, and I’ve had it up to _here_ with Autobots nonsense. _I’m out._ ”

Knockout walked to the door, slapped the panel from red to green, and stomped out of the medbay. Ratchet knew Knockout would find any excuse to bail from his medical exam early, but he had hoped it would be after Ratchet had given him his anti-nausea medications.

“Looks like you’re going to find him and play delivery bot.” Ratchet sighed. He looked through the medical cabinet in search of supplements.

“Why is that _my_ job?” Bumblebee said, “I’m a commander, not a nursebot.”

“I’m not a nursebot either, but Knockout is malnourished and fatigued.” Ratchet said as he portioned out mineral vials and boxes of the medical grade energon. “He’s not going to make it far without purging in the hall or entering stasis. The syringes for our basic minerals are empty so until I can obtain a resupply, he’ll have to rely on oral intakes.”

Ratchet loaded up the supplements into a box and handed it to Bumblebee.

“You know,” Bumblebee said, “when you asked me to be a part of your super-secret meeting, I thought it would involve espionage. Maybe blackmail or morally dubious spying. The kind of stuff Jazz and Prowl get up to. Not babysitting a carrying ‘Con.”

“ _Ex_ -‘Con.” Ratchet patted Bumblebee on the shoulder pauldrons, “and not every mission can be as glamourous as a James Wire-Bond movie.”

Bumblebee subspaced the box with a grumble and then left the medbay, still grumbling.

Once the yellow mech was gone, Ratchet finally exhaled, walked to his desk, and flopped into his chair. He shuttered his optics and let his processor go blank. Just when he was done with the nonsense of war, Primus decided it would be _so much fun_ to drop a different heap of nonsense into his lap. At least Ratchet could rely on Bumblebee to do most of the running around. It was the other reason he had chosen Bumblebee for keeping the secret: not only was he far more deceptive but he could keep up with Knockout. They were both young and energetic. Way too much for Ratchet to handle on his own and keep the medbay running until Knockout was a certified Autobot medic.

He needed a lunch break. Or dinner break? Ratchet checked his chronometer and found it was evening, or secondary evening since only the second sun was setting. Either way, time was weird, and all Ratchet was certain of was that he was hungry. Now that the war was over (or, as the Galactic Counsel saw it, at a standstill), he could afford breaks. There wasn’t a mech bleeding out on his examining table or someone suffering from third degree burns or needing to talk down a mech suffering from extreme combat fatigue. He could actually…. _unwind_.

Naturally, Ratchet distrusted it.

* * *

The commissary was one of the first places the Autobots remodeled once they gained control of the _Nemesis_ (rename pending). It wasn’t just for the reasons of space, but also for processor health. The original ‘Con mess was a corridor with a narrow row of dispensaries, no place to comfortably sit, and obnoxious disposable triangles instead of cubes to drink from.

“Who the pit decided to use these things?” Arcee marveled at the small size of the triangle containers, intended for energon.

“Shockwave.” Knockout had said. At that time, the mech was in and out of the brig but they used him as escort when possible. “He said that it was illogical to use cubes because it would lead to us just leaving them around. He also wanted to make it harder for people to take extra rations.”

“Who’d want extra rations of this gunk?” Bulkhead scrutinized the Decepticon energon dispensary. “I’ve seen human oil refineries that look more appetizing.”

Knockout shrugged. “It kept the ‘Cons functional.”

“By dumb luck.” Ratchet had said, “This is the _first_ thing we change.”

Bulkhead had been eager to knock down walls. Ratchet had no idea why Decepticons insisted on such a dark, pointy, and claustrophobic aesthetic for the ship with plenty of space once you disarmed the traps and emptied the hidden armories. Ratchet had been around long enough to know such conditions would drive mechs insane over time.

So, the commissary got an overhaul. Ratchet wasn’t a fan of huge open spaces or the movie night selection, but it was better than dealing with paranoid and angry Vehicons. Ratchet could sit in the back and enjoy a cool cube of energon while everyone else ignored him. The Vehicons were always quickly in and out, still skittish around the Autobots.

A human entered the commissary and when he looked in Ratchet’s direction, it lit up.

“Ratchet!” Raf said.

“Hello, Raf.” Ratchet said and put on his warmest smile. The world could be collapsing around him but Raf was one of the two people Ratchet would always have the energy to smile for.

The two years apart had drastically changed Raf. He had shot up like a natron weed and his once completely round baby-face was shifting with impending adolescence. His hair was still a spiky mess, but he had added in yellow streaks. 

“You digging the makeover?” Miko had laughed when the Autobots got a look at their human companions, “Raf is _totally_ a scene kid now. We got piercings too! _Check it ouuuuut!_ ” Miko then decided it was _perfectly alright and normal_ to open her mouth and show her metal-pierced glossa to Ratchet. Ratchet, in response, nearly purged.

“I only pierced my ears…” Raf mumbled, embarrassed by all the attention.

Now Ratchet was looking at Raf, still young and still growing, and wondering how much more time would pass between them.

“Please tell me Miko’s not exploring places she shouldn’t be.” Ratchet said.

“Last time I checked; she was teaching some Vehicons to play strip poker.” Raf said. Even though he was bigger now, Raf still had to climb onto a Cybertronian sized chair. “I don’t t know how well they can play it since they don’t wear clothes, but she said she was doing it in the name of intergalactic diplomacy.”

“Is _that_ what you call it?”

Raf smiled. “Our supervisor said that Miko had a gift for ‘crossing barriers’. She said that Miko was so loud and disarming that people dropped their guard to either get rid of or accept her.”

“Have you started doing field missions for Unit:E yet?”

“Oh, I could tell you…” Raf pushed up his glasses on his face with a smirk, “…but then I would have to _kill_ you.”

Ratchet smirked back. “I’d like to see you try, Earthling.”

“I could! I’ve been taking weapons classes.” Raf flexed a skinny arm. “Under here is all muscle.”

Ratchet squinted at the arm. “I think I’ll have to adjust my calibrators to detect something _that_ small.”

“It’s true! I know how to use knives now.” Raf folded his arms with a huff. “But, uh, mostly I’m ‘the guy in the chair’. I do a lot of technical work and put together dossiers. I also help out Ms. Kane repairing things around Skyvault.”

“It sounds like ‘college’ is working out well for you.” Ratchet chuckled.

“College by day, secret agents by night!” Raf said with a grin, “Or, secret agents by day, college at night if you’re Jack.” He shrugged and then the grin suddenly turned downward. He looked at the table as his fingers drummed on its surface. “So, uh. Is…Optimus _really_ gone? Jack told me he was dead but--”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Ratchet sighed, “This is just standard procedure. Something big happens, Optimus is gone, and then he comes back.”

Raf’s eyebrows crinkled but he nodded. “He does tend to do that.” He tilted his head, “How often does this happen?”

“ _Too_ often.” Ratchet drained the rest of his cube and stood, tossing it down the recycling chute. “Well, I better get to it. A medic’s duty is never done.”

Ratchet didn’t have any duties. Factoring in his age and the state of his frame, he should have retired eons ago. He was at the end of his shift…but he couldn’t sit there with Raf gazing up at him with those weirdly solid-yet-liquid organic eyes full of worry. It was the exact opposite of what Ratchet needed to be occupying his processor.

Rather than stay in the commissary, Ratchet did something he hadn’t done for a long time: he went for a drive. On Earth, he rarely got the opportunity to use his alt-mode. On Cybertron, he was yet to scan for one since Ratchet had been going through the catalogue of the _Nemesis’_ medical supplies.

The sad part about Cybertron was after the war, you didn’t have to go far to find an open grave. Bulkhead and Wheeljack had used strength and engineering to move some of the scattered metal husks, but there were only so many hours in the day to dedicate toward it. Exploring the Cybertronian ruins were on hold until they could get the _Nemesis_ airborne. They still had no idea where they had crashed. Not even the Well was a good indicator, as there were holes for it all over the planet.

It only took Ratchet twenty minutes of exploring a small crevasse of dead frames to realize two things: (1) they really needed to figure out what to do about all these husks and (2) there were few choices. There were no medical alt-modes available, not even an energon bike. Every husk was either ripped to shards or a tank with busted treads or a jet with its wings cleaved off. Everyone was loaded down with weaponry, as if they were preparing for the apocalypse.

Well, one of the _many_ apocalypses that took place before, during, and after the war.

Having made zero progress on the alt-mode search, Ratchet climbed out of the crevasse. Said climbing took a lot longer than he anticipated and by the time the old mech made his way to the top (huffing and puffing, which was _completely_ _unrelated_ ), two of the three suns were already setting. Vehicons moved about the outside of the _Nemesis_ , either returning to the ship as their afternoon patrol ended or leaving as their exiting patrol began. The ‘Cons made sure to avoid him, as they did with most of the Autobots except for Bulkhead. (How Bulkhead developed a rapport with the Vehicons in a short amount of time, not even Ratchet could fathom)

With creaking joints, Ratchet sat on a silicon hill and watched the twin suns of Cybertron make their journey toward the jagged horizon. The third sun, a dot compared to the others, hovered nearby—always a third wheel when it came to their orbits. It was always in the sky, only setting once a year…or was it vorn? Trimara? Deci-cycle? (Frag, was Ratchet going to have to go _back_ to the chronometric system? He hoped not)

Not that ‘night’ had any meaning this close to the Well of All Sparks. The constant stream of life-energy lit up everything in prismatic cascades, pulsing and sending out electromagnetic waves that would not just kindle new life but encourage the growth of energon crystals, wildlife, and slowly awaken and heal the planetary ecosystem. It would bring back civilization.

Eventually.

Right now, it was only a pretty lightshow and all it cost was the life of the last Prime.

Ratchet stared at the prismatic waves as they continued shooting into the sky. A shadow flickered amongst the reds and blues of the lights. The old mech didn’t move as the shadow moved closer.

“I had a feeling I would find you here, old friend.”

Ratchet sighed. Of course, Primus would pick now to spit in his optic. _Again_.

Optimus Prime didn’t say a word. He sat down next to Ratchet and watched the twin suns set, ushering in the night.


	8. Bumblebee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two short chapters just cause I love y'all. - badAquatic

> **Bumblebee spends roughly 90% of his time aboard the ship** **making sure the Vehicons don’t accidentally blow each other up or** **set off one of the _many_ remaining traps. He swears that ** **the traps are holding the old ship together at this point.**

Despite what Bumblebee had been told earlier, Knockout quickly made himself scarce. The medic had disappeared from the halls closest to the medbay and wasn’t hidden away in any of the rooms nearby. Bumblebee pinged the tracking chip, but the response was slow—which meant either the _Nemesis_ (rename meaning) reception was acting up or someone was using the Autobot server to livestream anime.

 **[Knockout, where are you?]** Bumblebee sent to the mech’s comm.

No response.

“Worth a shot.” Bumblebee sighed and shifted into his alt-mode.

He rolled down the halls, scanning for mechs matching Knockout’s size and shape. He only picked up Vehicons and almost passed by a small, armored creature standing among them. Bumblebee was about to demand what kind of animal the Vehicons had dragged into the ship (again), only to realize it was Miko in her environmental suit. The _Nemesis’_ environment was still tailored to Earth’s atmospheric pressure so humans could walk around without suffocating but that didn’t mean the ship was safe. It was full of sharp edges, sliding doors that weighed 2 tons, and materials hazardous to organics. Jack was nearly cut in half from a door suddenly shutting.

“I didn’t recognize you in your new suit.” Bumblebee said.

“You like it?” Miko flexed a metal-covered arm. “It’s my uniform courtesy of Skyvault: the exoframe! Our supervisors have cool nicknames for theirs but I’m still thinking of mine.”

“Did you pick the green and brown one on purpose?” Bumblebee asked.

Miko’s face flushed. “N-no! Jack and Raf took the other colors.” She then smiled, “Your new alt is cool though! Totally kickass; like something outta _Blade Runner._ ”

Bumblebee filed away the term _Blade Runner_ for future investigation, although the Autobot wondered if he would ever be caught up on Earth’s short yet vast pop-cultural media landscape. “Have you seen a short, moody red mech storm by?”

The two Vehicons looked uneasy but Miko perked up. “You mean Knockout?” She folded her arms. “You two fighting over the hot water again?”

“Solvent.” Bumblebee didn’t want to get into another long discussion with Miko about the lack of water on Cybertron. “And _he’s_ the one using all the hot solvent! We have to _share_ the wash racks and— _ugh_ , I’m wasting time!”

Bumblebee sped down the hall, continuing his search. If Knockout was passed out in a corner somewhere, Ratchet wasn’t going to just lob a wrench at his helm. Pit, Ratchet would lob _all_ the wrenches. He curved a corner until he encountered a cluster of Vehicons hauling armfuls of scrap and metal. (What _do_ you call a group of Vehicons? A flock? A swarm?)

“Knockout. Seen him?” Bumblebee asked.

“Um, no?” said a Vehicon. Bumblebee guessed that this one was 41SH14, but it was impossible to tell among the ones who were yet to pick proper designations or identification markers.

“Not since this morning. Or noon. Second noon?” the second Vehicon’s helm tilted. “How do you tell things with three suns? Like, it’s almost sunset but only _one_ of the suns set…”

“I saw him,” said the third Vehicon, “He was going toward the…reformatting chambers.” He said the latter with a shudder.

“Reformatting chambers?” Nowhere on the official map of the _Nemesis_ was a section labeled ‘reformatting chambers’, but the ship itself was odd. Rooms had either disappeared or collapsed into other areas and that wasn’t getting into the rampant traps and hidden caches. It was like a maniac designed the ship. 

“They’re in Lord, er, Shockwave’s private labs.” the Vehicon continued, “They’re in the basement. Um, whatever you call the bottom of a ship.”

“The basement.” Bumblebee agreed and zipped off before the Vehicons could involve him in a conversation about spaceship semantics. The Vehicons weren’t idiots but they tended to ramble. Since no one was constantly barking orders at them or demanding cowardice as proof of ‘loyalty’, they swung the gambit between overly friendly and fearful.

The spaceship’s ‘basement’ was in worse condition than Bumblebee recalled. The _Nemesis’_ sparse power had to be diverted elsewhere, meaning the basement was without light or powered doors. Bulkhead and Wheeljack spent two days welding caution signs, warning of undetected traps and hazards and they _still_ lost two Vehicons during the early days. Bumblebee sped down the ramp leading into the darkness and turned on his headlights.

There were a lot of comparisons to be had between the _Nemesis_ basement and a garage in a house that had been abandoned for years. Loose wires hung from pried off panels and pools of waste-energon dripping from holes in the ceiling. Rust patches were splattered along the ground and Bumblebee hoped it was regular rust and not the remnant of another Decepticon-made plague.

 **[Knockout?]** Bumblebee pinged again. Static on the comm but Bumblebee could hear _something_ on the far end of the dark hall.

Something that was coming closer.

Bumblebee put on his brakes and shifted back into standard mode. The noise was coming in closer. He sent out his scanner but what he detected was too small and numerous to be a mech or even one living entity. It was a small swarm, crawling not just on the walls but the ceilings. Scraplets? No, these were bigger than scraplets and far more cylindrical. They had long ‘tails’ of wires hanging from their aft-ends and didn’t screech. The things popped and crackled with static electricity, making the air hot.

Bumblebee deployed his guns. He wasn’t sure _what_ the creatures were, but he was certain they would die just like any other vermin.

Just as the crackling, frizzing creatures approached, Bumblebee’s sensors lit up: heat. Before Bumblebee could piece together what was happening, the orange-red glow of flames bathed the corridor’s dark end. The creatures that remained at the end of the hall screamed, their static charges fizzling out as fire licked their bodies. The stench of burning plastic and metal filled the air as the creatures died quickly and standing amongst the fire was Knockout.

The red mech had transformed his left arm into a flamethrower. The flames licked the floor and walls, turning the metal bright orange with scorching heat. The plastic and metal vermin screamed and those that didn’t quickly retreat were melted into goop alongside their kin. Bumblebee had to step out of the path of the fleeing creatures, clinging to a wall so they could pass by.

Knockout waved away the smoke and the residual sparks of the dying vermin, stepping around the melted puddles. Through the dark smoke and fire, Knockout stood out even more. His finish was pitted, and his paint wasn’t as bright as it used to be but in the golden-red glow of the corridor, he looked…lively? Enticing?

Bumblebee didn’t have the words for what he was seeing. Or feeling.

“What’s wrong, little ‘Bee?” Knockout asked, “Never dealt with frizz-rats before?”

“N-no…” Bumblebee said and bit his glossa for stammering. Knockout was getting closer and Bumblebee backed away, his aft bumping against the corridor wall. “I _heard_ of them but uh…not seen…”

“What’s wrong: cybercat got your tongue?” Knockout purred and shifted his flamethrower back into a taloned servo. The tips were still red hot, leaving a streak of heated metal as a talon trailed down Bumblebee’s chassis. Bumblebee inhaled sharply. Knockout’s touch was feather-light, preventing any pain and his battle systems from onlining.

Knockout smiled, letting the talon trail a white-hot line further down Bumblebee’s frame.

Bumblebee should be doing… _something_. He should _definitely_ not be acting like a nervous mechlet who lied about his age and was getting way in over his helm with an unobservant piece of shareware. Pit, Bumblebee had _been_ that mechlet in that _exact_ situation but this…situation…had evolved beyond that. The thick black smoke rolled over Knockout’s ankles and the air was full of the dying cries of melting vermin.

“Never seen you use _that_ weapon…” Bumblebee muttered. 

“Every medic needs a welder. Sounds like you enjoy it.” Knockout purred, “I never thought an innocent little Autobot like you would be interested in… _destruction_.” The talon was now on Bumblebee’s hip, radiating warmth. “You sure you never considered becoming a ‘Con?”

Bumblebee’s engines revved before he could stop it. He should be shoving the ‘Con away from him but he couldn’t look away from Knockout’s faceplate reflecting the orange-red shades of the dying fire.

“You wish....” Bumblebee said.

“You’re right.” There was the sharp _ting_ of metal knees hitting the metal ground. Knockout’s red optics looked up at Bumblebee. “I _do_ wish that.”

Knockout’s talons reached for his pelvic armor. The ex-Con must have used his medical knowledge because one touch of the thumb to the side of Bumblebee’s plating and his panel slid open before the yellow mech could consider canceling the command. His spike slid out, fully pressurized and ready to go. Knockout’s tongue lathed the underside of Bumblebee’s yellow-and-bronze spike, giving it a shiny polish as the fires dimmed. If Bumblebee was a more modest mech, he would’ve turned his headlights off but… _nah_. Bumblebee wanted to see _everything_ , from the glint of Knockout’s lips taking his spike to the hilt, to the transfluid splattering on the red mech’s chassis.

The overload made Bumblebee offline his optics, nearly had him rebooted his system in electromagnetic relief. No warning errors popped up but an overload _that_ good made his helm spin (Or maybe it had just been a while since he had got off).

Knockout stood and licked off the remaining transfluid on his lips.

“S-should you be doing this?” Bumblebee said. The fires were guttered out and now it was just Knockout, Bumblebee, and the headlights in the darkness.

Knockout rolled his optics and removed a cloth from his subspace. (Bumblebee tried not to think about why Knockout had a BJ cleaning cloth in his subspace in the first place)

“Oh, I’m sorry? Do blowjobs violate the Autobot manual?” Knockout said.

“Not that I know of,” Bumblebee admitted. He never paid attention to the Autobot manual long enough to see if sex acts were even mentioned. “I mean the transfluid. You’re carrying a protoform--”

“Gods! You really don’t know about compiling, do you?” Knockout cackled, “The kid feeds off my spark energy like the little parasite it is. It makes no difference what I consume.” He winked, “Now if we were to _interface_ \--”

“Which we’re not!” Bumblebee was willing to experiment with a lot of things, but he wasn’t going to interface with a carrying mech like a pervert in a poorly written fetish-aimed holovid.

“— _then_ we’d have to talk,” Knockout concluded as if Bumblebee’s protests were another grain in the sandstorm. “In general, it doesn’t matter.” The red mech looked at the half-melted frizz-rat corpse by his pede and kicked it without a second thought. “Few things do.”

Just as quickly as the glee of destruction and lust had seized Knockout, the defector’s faceplate returned to blankness. Knockout was staring into the darkness again as if searching it for answers.

A message popped up on Bumblebee’s HUD, mentioning his nearly empty fuel tank. If he was feeling slightly hungry, Knockout must have been running on fumes to come this far. The Autobot removed the container of medical energon and handed it to Knockout.

“Delivery courtesy of Ratchet.” Bumblebee said, “I need to refuel and you should be recharging.” Knockout grumbled but Bumblebee changed into his alt-mode and opened his passenger door. “Get in. It’s a long way to the commissary.”

Knockout subspaced the container and folded his arms. “I don’t need to be chauffeured around like an invalid. I walked all the way down here, didn’t I?”

“Walk? I thought you would transform.” Knockout’s alt-mode was still Earth-based; functional on the ship but useless on Cybertron. In fact, Bumblebee hadn’t seen Knockout’s alt-mode in some time. “Can you even change modes while you’re like… _this_?”

Knockout’s faceplate wrinkled, as if Bumblebee suggested he paint himself lime green and purple. “I can do it. It’s just…” He exhaled with a huff, “It’s _trickier_ to displace mass when you have something growing inside you.”

“And yet here I am, with my comfortable seats and the perfect remedy for aching pedes,” Bumblebee said, enticingly waving the door.

Knockout grumbled but, unlike most Decepticons, he surrendered to comfort over pride. It was an awkward fit at first and Bumblebee had to let Knockout move the chair back, but eventually, Bumblebee felt the red and black mech relax against the seat.

“You better not be tuned to some idiotic music stations.” Knockout said.

“No, but I do have this.” Bumblebee said.

The sound of _The Best of Screamo Vol 2_ shrieked from Bumblebee’s stereos. Miko had burned the disc for them before they left for Earth and Bumblebee refused to remove it from his disc changer. After all, if Knockout was going to be an Autobot, he was going to have to embrace heavy metal. 


	9. Knockout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussion of child soldiers, questionable Autobot morality during wartime, and shockwave's incredibly unethical experiments

> **Believe it or not, Knockout has dealt with worse service when it comes to taxis.** **One time, he took a Space-Uber that insisted on going the long way to avoid tolls.** **By the time he got to the Decepticon base, it had been blown up.**

Bumblebee’s terrible choice in music was something Knockout refused to endure. Being inside Bumblebee’s alt-mode meant that Knockout had free range of the dashboard dials, although that offered little reprieve. The radio picked up either static or messages from the dawn of human communications still floating their way to the far edge of the Bubble.

“Why’d you come down here?” Bumblebee asked, his voice coming through the door speakers.

Knockout groaned. He would have preferred Bumblebee to bring up the blowjob rather than be a typical, intrusive Autobot.

“Killing vermin.” Knockout said, “The ship’s always been lousy with them.”

“Seriously? We had _one_ scraplet outbreak and that was because of human kid shenanigans. How did you guys end up with frizz-rats in your old science wing?”

“Cons aren’t the neatest mechs.” Knockout admitted. Frizz-rats loved chewing on the soft cabling between Cybertronian armor plates. The Vehicon corpses in Shockwave’s private labs must have been like a buffet for them. Not that the vermin didn’t serve a purpose. Knockout had bred a few for testing and occasional boredom related vivisection.

“Weird considering how you and Starscream were always the showiest mechs I know.”

“Hypocrite, much?” Knockout snorted, “You Autobots are the ones done up in pastels like you’re the Rose Parade.”

“The _Rose Parade_?” Bumblebee’s speakers sputtered with laughter. “You watch human parades too? Do ‘Cons get _any_ work done?”

“There’s a lot of downtime when you’re a medic!” Knockout hadn’t meant to watch the entire thing, but he had been…mesmerized by the slow movement of the vehicles, the baton-wielding, and the pageantry. He couldn’t remember Cybertron ever having such an event, at least not on the cusp of war.

“Isn’t enjoying human culture against ‘Con policy?”

“ _What_ policy?” Officially, Decepticons were pro-Cybertronian and anything else was an inferior, disgusting infection to be conquered or stamped out. Unofficially, ‘Cons did what they wanted and if they indulged in human culture, that was between them and Soundwave (who was always watching).

Bumblebee hummed or maybe his engine hummed, as it was hard to tell without the aid of a faceplate or physical gestures.

“When did you realize humans weren’t the scum of the galaxy?” Bumblebee asked, “Was it the street racing?”

“Hardly.” If anything, humans were more annoying since they always lost to Knockout’s speedy alt-mode. “I don’t give a scrap about organics. The ‘Cons were the only ones recruiting mecha like me. Well, Starscream and his trine were…”

Slag. Now Knockout was thinking about Starscream. He had no idea where Starscream currently was or if he was dead or alive, but he knew the fates of his trinemates. Knockout still had scraps of Thundercracker’s terrible writing and a single video file of Skywarp learning to juggle and teleport at the same time.

Knockout’s tank flipped (or it certainly felt that way, as he was unsure if tanks were capable of doing that). His HUD crowded with errors, reminding him that his energy levels were below optimal, and he had already burnt the remainder setting vermin on fire.

“Hey, let me know if you’re going to puke!” Bumblebee said, “I’d rather not get tank acid _inside_ me.”

“Relax. There’s nothing _to_ purge.” Knockout removed a single cube of medical-grade from his subspace.

Bumblebee must have noticed Knockout was drinking because the vehicle slowed to a crawl. Knockout would have complained but it was bad enough he was drinking the high-mineral, nutritional slop easier.

“Being a carrier seems like a nightmare.” Bumblebee said, “I don’t think I could do it.”

“Few mecha do.”

“Well, yeah. There hasn’t been a carrier since ancient times.”

Knockout chortled. “Yeah. Alright. Sure. _That’s_ the reason. We’re all functionally sterile. _Not_ because we’ve been killing each other for millions of years.”

“…what do you mean?”

Oh, Primus. Did Knockout need to explain the mechanics of long-standing wars and population dynamics to the Autobot scout? That seemed to be more in Ratchet’s exposition-loving wheelhouse or Optimus (whenever the Prime showed up again).

“It doesn’t matter,” Knockout conceded, “at the rate ‘Cons and ‘Bots were killing each other, a few accidental emergences wouldn’t make a dent. Not to mention the survivable but sterility causing injuries or miscarriages that can happen in the heat of battle without most mecha even knowing. After all, why save a useless forge when you _need_ your digestive system?”

It was why most mecha saved their reproductive systems: it could take the sword or bullet that would have meant certain death had it torn through the digestive line.

“Just be relieved Shockwave made sure the Vehicons were Unix systems.” Knockout added, “Not that they _didn’t_ try occasionally…”

Bumblebee screeched to a halt. Knockout yelped as he hit the dashboard from the sudden stop.

“Are…you telling me could have killed carrying bots?” Bumblebee asked.

“Does it matter?” Unfortunately, the medical-grade hadn’t splashed out of the cube from the force of the stop so Knockout was forced to drain the remainder. He subspaced the empty, as there was no point in discarding recyclable materials. “War is war.”

“Of _course,_ it matters!” The stereo popped with static and the Autobot scout’s voice warbled, “You didn’t _always_ use Vehicons. Not on Cybertron. So that means—I don’t—we had no idea we could still do that! Primus, does this mean that—this is awful--”

“Do you not know the definition of ‘war’?” Knockout’s tank was still reading partially empty, so he removed another cube of medical-grade from his subspace. “I’ve likely killed a few myself. It’s why you ‘Bots insist on giving me a ‘trial’ despite me being on your side now.”

Static hissed from the stereo.

“Bumblebee?” Knockout asked.

More static.

Knockout tapped the dashboard but there was no response. Knockout sighed. It figured that out of all the Autobots to be made commander—out of all the ones he would have to consistently deal with—it would be the softsparked kid who still didn’t have a full grasp of the high cost of a long war.

“I honestly think the Vehicons got off easy not having interface or reproduction equipment.” Knockout said, “From what I read, Shockwave created them using the same methods to make those monstrosities from the gladiatorial pits. I suppose if they naturally reproduced, they would have…laid eggs? I _think_ Insecticons lay eggs.”

A single slurp and Knockout’s cube was half-empty. His tank wasn’t complaining but Knockout wasn’t optimistic. On the scale of Soundwave to Starscream, his systems had undergone extreme shifts in loyalty. Aside from the traitorous frame, there was no outward sign of compiling. The armor on his abdomen was only slightly denser than usual but Knockout knew the sparkling was there. Mocking him. Demanding more nutrition and energy like the galaxy’s tiniest vampire.

“I wish _this_ was an egg.” Knockout muttered, “It would make delivery easier, which I don’t even know how _that’s_ going to work out. I could only find one manual that mentioned emergence and it was older than Shockwave.” According to the manual, Cybertronian size varied way too much to make an accurate prediction on protoform size, shape, or potential alt-modes.

Static.

“ _Seriously_?” Knockout groaned, “Listen, we can’t sit here in all night while you freak out about your morals!”

“I’m not ‘freaked out’.” Bumblebee’s voice sounded like he was radioing from the other side of the planet. There was a hiss and pop, followed by, “I’m just…thinking.”

“Freaked out.” Knockout scoffed and put his pedes on the dash. If he was going to be here for a while, he might as well get comfortable. “Ah, to be so young, innocent, and easily shocked by the horrors of daily existence during a minor civil scuffle that ballooned into an interstellar war that’s ruined dozens of planets and lives.”

“I’m the same age as you!” Bumblebee’s voice was irritating but less full of static.

“Hardly.”

“I…just realized that if you hadn’t joined us, I could’ve killed you while you were carrying, and I wouldn’t even know it or thought about. It would just be…another casualty.” Bumblebee’s voice wavered in the static. His engine gave an uneasy hum. “Is that why you wanted to become an Autobot? You realized you were carrying and Megatron would’ve put you on the frontlines anyway?”

Knockout waited for the rest of the joke to come. When he was greeted with static, he burst out laughing.

“Oh my gods! That’s _rich_!” Knockout snickered, wiping a tear from his optic. “You think we were _forced_ onto the frontlines?”

“Who sends a carrying bot into active combat?” Bumblebee demanded.

“War: Noun. A state of armed conflict between different groups,” Knockout said, “And that means _everyone_ does their part. It’s not like carrying effects whether the laser you fired kills your enemy or not. It’s no different from dealing with a rust infection or corrosion sores.” He waved his talons. “Survival of the fittest.”

Another sputter of static. “But that’s--”

“Barbaric?” Knockout smirked, “Is it any worse than sending mechlings into the field?”

“I…” Bumblebee’s air vents shuttered. An indignant inhale came from the stereos. “I wasn’t a _mechling_ when I joined up!”

“You _sure_ about that? Because if you’re the same age as me, you couldn’t have been older than a mechling when the war kicked off. I know I was…what do the humans call it again? A _teenager_. I couldn’t have been older than Miko. _You_ must have been closer to Raf’s age.”

“…I was old enough to know what I was getting into.”

“And small enough. I bet it was you and a bunch of other, plucky teens who filled the scouting ranks. Not suspicious at all. Just a bunch of kids having fun in the streets. Totally _not_ spying on the enemy.”

Bumblebee revved his engines. He jolted ahead, rocking Knockout in his seat once again.

“Pedes off my dash!” Bumblebee ordered.

“Whatever you say, _mon amie_.” Knockout chuckled and removed his pedes. The elevation was giving him a leg cramp anyway.


	10. Optimus

> **Optimus calls a lot of people ‘old friend’ but it’s his inflection** **that dictates who he’s talking to. Still, it confused the hell out of Ironhide,** **but that mech’s audials were never the sharpest.**

Ratchet was silent but Optimus Prime expected that.

Wait, he wasn’t a Prime anymore. Should he still be using that designation? Optimus wasn’t sure how post-Prime proceedings were supposed to go. The manual for such ceremony was lost during the war and most Primes tended to die and…well, _stay_ dead by entering the Matrix of Leadership (which was just another form of death to those who didn’t understand the scientific and spiritual nature of such a transition but that was neither here nor there).

But the Matrix hadn’t let him, or his spark had refused to meld with the All Spark. Either way, Optimus walked out the Well no longer in the heavily armored frame of a Prime but as an archivist. His fingers were thin and long with multiple segments and his chassis returned to a standard width, as it no longer had to adjust for the mass and energy displacement of the Matrix. It was a dramatic change, but Optimus’s processor was used to grappling with frame dysphoria.

The first thing Optimus saw as he stepped out of the Well was a familiar mech sitting on the silicon hillside. Ratchet. The old mech stared into the light of the Well, the prismatic colors reflecting off his paint and optics. His paint was still of the rough quality, preferring tolerance of extreme temperatures and battle over showiness. Others said that Ratchet didn’t care about his appearance or anyone else for that matter, but Optimus knew better of the medic’s spark.

“I had a feeling I would find you here, old friend,” Optimus said.

Ratchet sighed. He didn’t look at Optimus, continuing to stare at the lights. Optimus’s newly formed joints and welds were aching from the pain of reforging, but he sat down next to the old mech anyway. They sat in silence as the two suns set and only the furthest of the triad remained, keeping the two moons company. Even with the Well reactivated, there was little noise in the ruined city.

“How have things been since--” Optimus said.

At the first hint of conversation, Ratchet stood and walked toward the _Nemesis_ (rename pending). Optimus followed him, ignoring the pain and loud creaking as his frame. Ratchet was an older mech, but Optimus’ new frame was still getting a handle of steady movement.

“Ratchet, wait!” Optimus called.

Ratchet did not wait. He entered the mouth of the ship, walking through the entry hanger. Patrolling Vehicons saluted Ratchet and then turned their helms at Optimus before returning to their conversations. Optimus didn’t worry about the new recruits, continuing to follow Ratchet into the corridor.

“Optimus?” Arcee asked. The femme was walking the halls, ready to turn into a room when she noticed them. She looked at Ratchet, “Did he just come back?”

Ratchet grunted and kept on walking.

“It’s great to see you, Arcee,” Optimus said before continuing the chase.

“Can you at least tell me _exactly_ when you got back?” Arcee yelled after them.

“Later!” Optimus said.

Normally, Optimus would have chalked up the strange behavior to the typical post-reforging/near-death/actual death survival shock but Arcee isn’t alone in her questions. Smokescreen was relieved to see Optimus was back but oh, would it just trouble him to say that he had been wandering around for a day or so before coming back to the ship? Wheeljack wanted to know if Optimus had been reforged or simply shuffled back into an old husk. Within minutes, Optimus had a crowd of inquisitive mechs trailing after him and it was a little too much to deal with. Not just because they were irritating but he was also losing Ratchet in the crowd.

“Why are all of you _suddenly_ so interested in how I came back to life?” Optimus demanded.

“…curiosity?” Bumblebee said.

“A sudden spiritual awakening?” Wheeljack supplied.

“Betting,” Bulkhead admitted.

Every optic in the corridor glared at the large mech.

“Oh, like _anyone_ would believe you’d have a ‘spiritual awakening’ that didn’t involve fragging, Jackie,” Bulkhead said.

Optimus’s jaw joint made a loud pop as it unhinged.

“Are you… _betting_ if I would return from the Well of All Sparks?” Optimus yelled.

“When you say it like that, it almost sounds silly.” Knockout snorted.

“Not if! _When_!” Arcee clarified.

“It’s not like this is the first time you’ve come back,” Bulkhead said.

“Not only is _gambling_ highly illegal and unethical for Autobots but gambling _on life or death situations_ is even worse!” Optimus said. His vents were opening and closing so rapidly he felt he was going to enter light stasis from the shock of learning.

“Are you seriously gonna get all Ultra Magnus on us right now, Ops?” Wheeljack groaned.

“Oh, my liege…” Knockout’s smooth voice cut through the din. He pointed a talon at the far end of the corridor. Ratchet had made his way through the crowd and was turning the corner. “Your boyfriend’s getting away.”

Optimus had no idea what the word “boyfriend” meant but he was determined not to lose Ratchet. He gave a glare to the Autobots to know that there would be consequences for breaking an important code (especially at _his_ expense) and pushed through the crowd.

Ratchet only halted his walk when he had come to a habsuite. _Their_ habsuite, decorated with souvenirs from Earth and the berth Optimus made by welding two standard sized ones. Ratchet sat on the berth and reached underneath to get at the storage locker. Legs and wires aching, Optimus shut the door behind him.

“Ratchet. Talk to me.” Optimus said.

Ratchet removed the bottle of high grade from the storage locker (of which vintage Optimus was never sure of, as collecting it was more Ratchet’s hobby than his). The old medic removed a shot cube from his subspace.

Optimus debated about moving closer to Ratchet, to try and offer some physical support, and then thought better of it.

“I…I know this sort of thing has never been easy on you,” Optimus continued, “given how you’ve never professed faith in Primus or any other god. I don’t understand why this has happened…repeatedly…but this means we have a chance to--”

“Optimus.” Ratchet said, “Shut. The. Frag. _Up._ ”

Optimus shuttered his optics. He had expected a few choice words from Ratchet, but ‘frag’ hadn’t been one of them.

Ratchet filled the shot cube, drank, and then refilled.

“Ratchet.” Optimus’ voice was a low rumble. It didn’t carry with it the harsh authority of an annoyed leader but now a concerned companion, “I don’t know what your problem is but--”

“My _problem_?” Ratchet’s laugh was a short bark. “You want to know _my_ problem, Optimus?” He stood, still holding the shot cube. “My problem is _you_! The _minute_ you run into a problem; you think the _best_ solution is to throw yourself on the sword! You think all your sacrifices, your deaths, mean _anything_ to me anymore?”

Ratchet moved closer. Even in Optimus’ new body, the mech was still smaller than him. He had to tilt his helm back to make full optic contact with the former Prime.

“They. Mean. _Nothing._ ” Ratchet hissed, “You tread the same old paths, letting yourself be at the beck and call of eternity. It’s like you’re a living mobius strip and you just keep driving along because you…you _can’t_ change. You don’t know _how_. And I can’t… _won’t_ do this anymore.” The mech’s eyes shimmered with tears and he looked away. “Now, get the frag out of _my_ berth room.”

If Optimus was a different mech—if he was like his predecessors or a Decepticon—he could remind Ratchet that this was officially _his_ berth room; that he was the Autobot leader and earned the luxury of a private room rather than the barracks that Ratchet should be in. Optimus could demand that as a medic, Ratchet should be more sympathetic and understanding of the unusual circumstances a Prime had to endure. That Optimus needed the comfort and emotional support of not just a conjunx, but a friend.

But Optimus is not that mech. Optimus would never _want_ to be that mech. He exited the habsuite and stood in the empty corridor. It was silent, which meant everyone was either heading off to recharge or out patrolling.

Or they had heard Ratchet’s muffled shouting and decided to move on from the area. Either way, Optimus was alone and had to find his own location for recharge.

The search for a place to recharge was far more taxing than the actual fight with Ratchet. In the time Optimus had been gone, the living quarter situation had not changed on the _Nemesis_. The Vehicons were crammed into bunk-berths in the new barracks (which were just refurbished torture and ammo rooms) and the other ‘Bots were sharing. The occasional empty room was still a potential hazard for problems, ranging from lack of sanitation, pests, energy malfunctions, traps, spying equipment, or all the above.

So, Optimus found himself in the hangar. The entrance was shuttered but that didn’t prevent the cold from seeping in. The temperature during Cybertron’s night cycle was inhospitable, making the hangar chilly. Typical for Cybertronian spaceships, the _Nemesis_ could be kept cool, but heating was a disaster that resulted in a fire or total blackout if they were lucky.

Not that there would be much point in heating a hangar, but Optimus’s systems were still sluggish. He was certain his HUD would be full of nagging alerts about optimal temperature and comfort when it came to recharging. He wouldn’t complain though. He had recharged in rougher situations and he wasn’t organic. What was cold by Cybertronian standard would be deadly for a human.

He made the best of the situation. Optimus commandeered two tarps used to cover decommissioned ships and found a transportable recharge slab hidden among the item lockers. (Optimus guessed that it was used by the patrolling Vehicons.) The former Prime pitched a crudely made tent on the far side of the hangar, keeping as much distance from the _Jackh_ _ammer_ and the doorway so disturbance was less likely.

Optimus shuttered his optics.

He didn’t slip into recharge. A million or billion or whatever years of war and _now_ was the time his frame decided to run insomnia.exe.

The hangar door irised open and closed. Optimus peeked outside of his tent to see a two-wheeled Cybertronian move toward him. The sight of it made Optimus sit up, if only for its uniqueness. Two-wheeled alt-modes weren’t endemic to Cybertron, but another thing borrowed from the Golden Age’s colonial conquests. The sight of it both made Optimus curious and uneasy; yet another reminder of Cybertron’s vicious imperialism. 

“You alright, Big O?” Arcee asked.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” Optimus sighed. He had no idea where the designation came from, but it was likely Miko. She seemed to be a source of nicknames both great and terrible.

“I thought you’d be celebrating with everyone’s favorite gruff but lovable medic.”

“Things are always…difficulties…when I return.”

Arcee made an “mmm” noise, though it could have been her engine stalling. The femme shifted to root mode and sat outside the tent.

“Wanna talk about it?” Arcee asked.

“I would hate to interrupt your patrol route.” Optimus sighed.

Arcee smirked. “I don’t think the frizz-rats will miss me if I take a break from patrol.”

“I may no longer be a Prime but I’m still your superior.” Optimus muttered, “It is inappropriate for me to involve you in…my _personal_ life.”

“You haven’t acted like my commanding officer since you came back as Orion Pax.” Arcee said, “You already told Ultra Magnus that we’re a ‘human family’.” She tilted her helm. “I suppose that would make you the ‘Dad’ and Ratchet the ‘Mom’?”

From Optimus’s understanding of human relationships, the ‘Dad’ and the ‘Mom’ were conjunx. Though, from what he had glimpsed of human sitcoms, the conjunx seemed to be based on emotional strife and sarcasm than affection. Then again, humans were aliens so he could have been misinterpreting their behaviors.

“Not at the moment,” Optimus admitted.

“Oh.” Arcee said quietly, “Is it like June’s former conjunx now?”

Optimus had no idea. The very thought of Ratchet never speaking to him again made his spark stutter.

“Ratchet…” Optimus was staring at his servos. They were so thin now. He wondered if he would ever be able to wield a weapon without damaging the fine archivist tools hidden inside. “…he takes time to adjust but he doesn’t…he’s never…”

 _My problem is_ you _!_

Optimus’s words stutter in his intake tubing. For the first time in centuries, he’s at a loss for what to say.

“I…thought I was doing the right thing.” Optimus whispered, “I _thought_ I was taking the actions that were best for everyone…but I never considered…”

_You think all your sacrifices, your deaths, mean anything to me anymore?_

Optimus wished he had the Matrix of Leadership. Over the millennia, the individual voices had coalesced into whispers, becoming an entity that calmly suggested the best solution to every crisis. Considering this, Optimus realized most of those solutions seemed to involve him getting killed and then returning to life through some contrivance. It was almost as if relying on the words of the dead—those who were exempt from the consequences of life, death, and personal relationships—were shaky at best and suicidal at worst. If Optimus still held the Matrix, he would have a few choice words for it…but no, it was in the Well and that was…fine.

Just fine. It’s not like he _needed_ it.

Was there even a point to being Optimus Prime anymore? He had returned to Orion Pax’s body and his caste. He could return to being Orion Pax…but what would be the point of that? Orion Pax died when the war began. He was a glorified library clerk, a midcaste who buried his helm in books rather than look at the blood sport just outside his window.

Orion Pax didn’t have the skills to rebuild a shattered world. His place was in the historical archives of Iacon and that was now only rust and shattered metal. Optimus had deleted so much archivist-based information from his processor to make room for battle plans and blueprints that he couldn’t fathom the old tasks. Did he even remember the categorical considerations of the Dewbot decimal system? Could he still type at the standard rate of 200 glyphs a nanosecond? Did his Batchelor’s Degree in Iaconic History even still matter if the authenticator server blew up and the school was converted into a weapons factory?

“You alright, Big O?” Arcee asked.

“Wuh?” Optimus murmured.

“You’re breathing rapidly,” Arcee said. She squinted, “Are you…having a panic attack?”

“Am I?” Usually, when things like this happened, Optimus had the reassurance of the Matrix or other, older mechs to help him through. But that wasn’t going to happen now. The Matrix was gone, Ratchet wasn’t speaking to him, and he was the second oldest mech on the _Nemesis_ —perhaps on all of Cybertron.

Arcee frowned, tilted her helm. She wasn’t a trained medic, but she wasn’t beyond emotional support. “Do you…need anything?”

Optimus inhaled slowly, remembering where he was. There was no point in worrying about things beyond his control.

“I…am reflecting,” Optimus admitted. Another breath. “Arcee, do you think…” He paused, mentally parsing out his question. “When I stepped into the Well, I knew it would result in my destruction. The Matrix said so, but it reassured me that my actions were just. My death would sow the ground for a bright, new future, but after…what Ratchet said…”

_The minute you run into a problem; you think the best solution is to throw yourself on the sword!_

“Was there another way?” Optimus asked, “That I didn’t need to sacrifice myself?”

Arcee opened her mouth and then shut it. Her expression wasn’t a deep frown, but he could tell by the uneasy look in her optics that she wasn’t mulling over a decision but deciding how to put her words delicately.

“You do tend to…die. A lot.” Arcee sighed, “Too much if we’re being honest. After a while it just becomes…the ‘new normal’ as the humans say.”

“Hence the betting on my mortality.” Optimus rubbed his faceplate with a sigh.

“Yes. _But_ …the important thing here is that it’s not your fault, Optimus.” Arcee said, “You’ve become so used to the frontlines and quick decisions that mean life or death that you don’t have time to reconsider or rethink or even _ask someone else their opinion or ideas_ before you do something drastic. You’re kind of like…remember Raf’s car?”

Optimus’s optics shuttered as he brought up the memory. The toy had been a hazard that he had nearly crushed one time and tripped over at another. “The one that looked like Bumblebee?”

Arcee nodded. “It was fast, and it got stuck easily. The toy would get to a rough patch of dirt or grass and all it could do was spin its wheels until someone came along and rescued it.”

“…are you saying I’m no more intelligent than a human toy?”

“ _No_. You’re a good leader, Optimus, but you can be really narrowminded in your goals. You’re used to wartime thinking but we’re no longer a military. We’re a human family and that calls for different protocols.”

“And what would those protocols entail?” Familial-like relationships existed on Cybertron before the war, but never in the human sense. Cybertronians lacked a glyph even for the concept of extended family. There were glyphs for mentor and apprentice, conjunx endura and amica endura, trines, quads, and so on, but those groups were independent and never interacted with each other.

“Families talk things out.” Arcee said, “There’s no chain of command anymore. You don’t…” The femme moved closer to him, resting her servo on his pauldron. “You don’t have to do this alone. You can talk to us, like how Moms and Dads talk to their kids about the tough times.”

“It sounds chaotic,” Optimus admitted but a smile tugged at his lip plates.

“I didn’t say it _wouldn’t_ be.” Arcee chuckled, “It’s not perfect but it’s better than driving a square-cut handle into a round hole.” 

And for once, without the Matrix, Optimus understood what he had to do. He couldn’t do it _now_ , as he doubted anyone would tolerate his new burst of energy so late at night.

“I wonder why I didn’t pass the Matrix of Leadership onto you, Arcee.” Optimus said, “You would have made a great Prime.”

“Me? A Prime? Yeah, right.” Arcee said and left the makeshift tent, “I saw what being a Prime meant. No more drinking or karaoke? What would I even call myself? Arcus Prime? _Bleh_.”

“Deflect all you want, but leaders are made, not forged or constructed.” Optimus chuckled.

Arcee rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say, Prime.”

“Please. Just Optimus.”

“Sure.” Arcee shifted back to alt-mode. “As long as I still get to call you, Big O.”

Arcee sped off before Optimus could complain about the terrible nickname. Even in a bulky Cybertronian alt, she was one of the faster Autobots. She turned a corner around the _Star Hammer_ and entered another corridor.

Optimus Prime—no, he was just Optimus now. Orion Pax was a lifetime ago. Optimus Prime gave himself up to the Well. Optimus would have to think of a location designation later—when his home-planet wasn’t in ruins and they had a basic infrastructure—but for now he was simply Optimus. Optimus of the Autobots. Optimus of New Cybertron.

The weight of the new designation settled on his shoulder pauldrons. It felt…right. His spark beat remained steady, cementing in his process that this was not just a new start for Cybertronian civilization but everyone involved in the war.

A new beginning of a better era.


	11. Knockout

> **Medical grade energon comes in a multiple of flavors such as copper, aluminum oxide,** **silica gel, vanadinite, and selenite. They’re all varying degrees of gross,** **with aluminum oxide being the worst and vanadinite being the most palatable.**

Knockout’s misery in continuing to ingest medical grade was only compounded by having to be in the commissary. He had no idea why the Autobots insisted on remodeling the old dispensary into a wide-open space with TV and games. Yes, the original ‘Con energon dispensary had been cramped but everyone could get their daily ration and scurry off to their rooms without fuss. Now Vehicons loitered in the room: lying on couches, chatting about nothing, or pretending to comprehend the human entertainment gifted to them.

Worst of all, Bumblebee insisted on socializing. As much as Knockout wanted to sit in the far back and be ignored, Bumblebee had them sit together within proximity of loafing Vehicons. Bumblebee sat across from Knockout, sipping down his own tantalizing standard grade energon while Knockout glared at his third ration of medical grade.

Bumblebee nudged the cube toward Knockout. “Come on. You need to get at least three rations for a standard meal. Doctor’s orders.”

“ _I’m_ a doctor and it tastes like chalk,” Knockout grunted, “and not the high-quality colored chalk humans use in their art schools but the bootleg sidewalk chalk they give to the stupid elementary students.”

Bumblebee shuttered his optics. “…have you been eating _Earth_ _chalk_?”

“…Occasionally.” Bumblebee stared at him and Knockout huffed, “Don’t give me that look! Starscream hoarded all the rust sticks and Soundwave locked the high-grade after the ‘Nearly-Crashing-Us-Into-The-Sun Incident’. What am I supposed to do? _Not_ snack?”

“Not on _chalk_!” Bumblebee said, “I don’t even know if we can _eat_ that. Especially not…” He glanced at Knockout’s abdomen. “… _right now._ ”

Knockout questioned how the Autobots lasted in a brutal, long-standing war if they were constantly fussing over the wellbeing of every single mech. A commander could afford to have a certain degree of care but that was for prominent soldiers. The Decepticons wouldn’t accomplish anything if Knockout fussed over every Vehicon that got a scratch. Was that the reason why Autobots didn’t have (or perhaps didn’t use) the Vehicon replicating tech?

“How much did you lose out on the Optimus bet?” Knockout asked. The best way to get Bumblebee off his case was with a good distraction.

Bumblebee frowned. “Just one more day and I would’ve won the pot…”

“For how much exactly?” Although gambling was (apparently) against Autobot policy, Knockout was yet to see the Autobots exchange a shanix, Cassanian quadrocheque, Betelgusian sputtle-progs, gold, or trade cubes. Megatron had also banned gambling but the ‘Cons were never sneaky about what was being traded and when.

Bumblebee smirked. “Sorry. Autobots only. Talk to me when you’re official, shorty.”

“I’m not _that_ short!” Well, Knockout was a bit on the short and wide size and now that he was here Arcee was no longer the shortest one _but still._ “Seems like to me you didn’t let Ratchet in on the deal either. You afraid of letting him know you were betting on his semi-immortal boyfriend?”

“Huh?” Bumblebee looked up from his now empty cube. “What was that? ‘Boyfriend’?” He sounded out the word like he was trying to pronounce a foreign glyph.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Bumblebee stared. “Is that the same thing as conjunx?”

Now it was Knockout’s turn to stare. “A what? A…conjoin?”

“You’re _kidding_ me.” Bumblebee said. The shutters of his optics widened as if the answer to his question was written on Knockout’s faceplate. “You don’t know what a conjunx is? It’s, you know, the uh, special mech, femme, or bot in your life. The person you’d go through pit for and take on Unicron himself to make sure they were safe.”

“A boyfriend. You’re talking about a boyfriend. Or a partner.”

“What? No, a partner is different. That’s a _work_ thing.”

Knockout squinted. “So, Autobots have work partners and frag partners?”

“It’s the same person!”

“I thought you were against mixing work and play?” Every Autobot seemed to have a steel rod up their aft about flirting while on the job.

“No, you’re confusing a partner with a conjunx.”

“Stop making up words!” Knockout groaned, “Next you’ll tell me Autobots have a special made-up word for best friend.”

“It’s called an amica! How can you not _know_ this?”

“What’s all the shouting about?” Bulkhead entered the commissary with his empty cube. When he saw it was Knockout and Bumblebee, the large mech smirked, “You two finally decide to get together after dancing around each other?”

“We’re not dancing around each other!” Bumblebee insisted.

“My standards have yet to fall to Babybee’s level.” Knockout added. It was a lie, but it was hilarious to see Bumblebee get angry. The yellow mech’s faceplate scrunched up as if his wounded pride could explode.

Rather than roll out the insults, Bumblebee said, “Knockout doesn’t know about a conjunx is.”

Bulkhead tilted his helm. “… _really_?” 

It was then Knockout decided he was a little too tired to deal with a whole new barrage of questions from not one but two Autobots.

“Whatever.” Knockout subspaced the still full cube of medical grade. If he got hungry (and desperate) during the night, he’d sip at it. He gave Bumblebee’s leg a light kick. “C’mon, taxi. Your favorite medic needs his beauty recharge.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Bumblebee grumbled and subspaced his empty cube.

“Don’t let me interrupt your night,” Bulkhead said. The mech was still smirking at them as the two made their way to the commissary door.

“I’m only doing this because Ratchet told me to!” Bumblebee huffed.

“And I’m taking full advantage of it.” Knockout elbowed Bumblebee in the side vents. “Giddy up, pard’ner.”

Bumblebee grumbled but the threat of Ratchet was enough to get him to comply. Bumblebee’s alt wasn’t a comfortable ride, but it was better than walking to the other side of the _Nemesis_ (rename pending).

“Great. Now _everyone’s_ going to think we’re clanging.” Bumblebee grumbled.

“It’s alright. I’m used to taking one for the team.” Knockout said.

Bumblebee’s stereos popped and crackled with agitated static.

“ _You_ taking one for the team?” Bumblebee yelled, “ _I’m_ way out of your league, Speed Buggy! I could have any Cybertronian I wanted! Scouts are _very_ in demand!”

“In demand with who?” Knockout stretched, resting his pedes on the dashboard. “Not much of a selection on Tindercan when the rest of the planet is uninhabited, Buzz-buzz.”

The vents on the dashboard click on, blowing out chilled air. Knockout hissed and immediately folded his legs back down, getting as far from the cold air as possible.

“Pedes off my dash!” Bumblebee ordered, “If I find any crud on my dash, _you’re_ going to be the one to clean it!”

“Like pit, I will.” Knockout said, “I’m retired from the cosmetics game. Nowadays, the only thing I buff is myself.” Though buffing hadn’t been an option given his current living situation and being at the beck and call of an ancient Autobot.

“Speaking of that…what’s your deal lately?”

“Besides compiling for an ungrateful sparkling?”

“Your _paint job_. I’ve seen you run people off the road for scratching your finish. Now you’re flaking all over my seats—not cool by the way—and you’re covered in more scuffs than Steve.”

“Who the pit is ‘Steve’?”

“He’s a Vehicon! Do you seriously not know their designations?”

“No point.” Most Vehicons didn’t last long enough to make designations worthwhile. Once the next hazard or crisis occurred, Knockout bet that the less durable drones would be back to square one.

“Is this an instinctual thing? Like you become a carrier and you forget to paint and buff?”

Knockout groaned. Only an Autobot could produce such earnest sounding stupidity from their mouth. “You make it sound like compiling is equal to letting a mind-altering parasite inhabit my frame.”

“Well…yeah. It is.”

“Where’d you read _that_? A High Council approved pamphlet?” Knockout waved his talons, “ _Behold the horrors of compiling! Why forging is the best alternative! Be afraid of monsters from the gestational factory!”_ He rolled his optics, “I bet you thought Chickbot tracks were real.”

“Only an idiot would believe those things. Give me _some_ credit.”

“You never know with Autobots, _especially_ scouts.”

Knockout’s fuel pump leapt for joy once he saw his habsuite doorway. He nearly rolled out of the yellow car and stretched out, working a cramp out of his backstrut.

“Well,” Knockout said, “I’d like to say it was a pleasure but you’re annoying and I’m exhausted so goodnight. Or good day. Whatever time it is on this fragged planet.”

Knockout opened the door, but a hand gripped his arm. He looked up at the yellow mech, who had decided now was the time to shift out of alt-mode and stop him when his small, yet comfy berth was _right there._

“Oh, what is it _now_?” Knockout groaned, “I wasn’t lying when I said I was exhausted.”

“It’s…just…” Bumblebee shifted from pede to pede, carefully choosing his words. 

Now that the mech was towering over him, Knockout could get a good look at the other mech’s faceplate. The proportion of Bumblebee’s optics to the rest of his face was larger than the typical Cybertronian design, with optics enhanced with lenses and special shutters for the purpose of photographing and filming. _Pricey mods_ , Knockout realized and questioned which Autobot had installed those in the scout. They certainly weren’t part of Bumblebee’s original frame design.

Not that Knockout cared about Bumblebee’s appearance, modified or not.

“If you’re worried about the blowjob, don’t fret your pretty helm over it.” Knockout said, “The first one is always free.” He said the latter with a sly wink.

“That’s not--that’s not the problem!” Bumblebee fretted; his optics dilated widely.

Oh, this was becoming too much fun. Knockout’s smile only widened. “Though if a blowjob is shorting your circuits this much, _maybe_ I should pick Bulkhead next time--”

“No way!” Bumblebee’s servos curled into a tight fist.

Knockout raises an optical ridge. “Ooh, getting _protective,_ are we?” He shook his helm. “I’m just worried about you! If a blowjob is doing this, I’d hate to see what happens when you get anything in your valve. Even a finger could blow your helm. Literally.”

“It’s not about that!” Bumblebee protested, “We’re already…involved in other stuff.” Once again, he made a vague gesture to Knockout’s abdomen. “We shouldn’t involve others.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, ‘Bee.” Knockout chuckled. Bumblebee opened his mouth (likely to supply more protests about his lack of attraction to Knockout), but Knockout stepped into his habsuite and shut the door behind him.

It was always better to have the last word and leave them wanting for more, or that was what Knockout’s experiences taught him.


	12. Ratchet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussion of imperialism, fascism, and food insecurity during meeting 
> 
> tw: discussion of depression and lack of self care comes up during Knockout's exam.

> **Arcee is like the college-aged daughter who has to deal with her parents** **being old and bickering every weekend she comes home to do her laundry.** **She loves them but by Primus, are they irritating.**

“You and Big O still having a marital spat?” Arcee asked.

“It’s none of your concern.” Ratchet insisted.

Ratchet sat in the commissary, testing Smokescreen’s latest endeavor in developing his post-war hobby. Part of rebuilding Cybertronian society would not just be construction and governmental work but keeping an optic out for the processor health of those who had been through the war. Sliding from soldier into civilian was a burden for most bots so Ratchet devised a method: assigning everyone to develop hobbies outside of military application or monetization. 

The only downside to this method was Smokescreen’s decision to explore his culinary talents. Ratchet didn’t want to discourage the young mech so (fearing for his digestive tank and system) he accepted Smokescreen’s latest attempt at being a ‘barista’, as the humans called it. Thus, why Ratchet was sitting in the commissary, staring at Smokescreen’s latest invention: a mocha oil-latte with a shot of engex. Arcee had decided to politely decline Smokescreen’s offer of a grande copper-whip latte for regular energon.

The commissary had been cluttered with Vehicons until Arcee arrived, at which the former ‘Cons quickly cleared out for morning patrol. Being alone in the commissary suited Ratchet anyway. The morning meeting wouldn’t start for another hour, so Ratchet had time to linger. (The fact that Optimus would _also_ be at the meeting was completely incidental)

“If it were Bulkhead and me fighting, Optimus and you would have us try to talk it out,” Arcee said.

“You’re our subordinates. We have to make sure you get along.”

“We’re your subordinates as much as the kids are.” Arcee snorted, “Face it, Ratchet. We’re all stuck together in a big mess, like that time Miko tried to make pizza in that microwave Raf built out of engine parts. Why not just admit what’s going on between you and your conjunx?”

“Conjunx?” Ratchet sputtered. He was the oldest mech on the ship (perhaps on the planet), but the word still flustered him. “If you’re implying that I’m canoodling with my superior officer, not just that but a _Prime-_ ”

“Oh c’moooon.” Arcee groaned, “ _Everyone_ knows Optimus and you have been an item for _years_. Also, it’s impossible to ignore the loud clanging. You know how many times I had to tell Jack that we had an infestation of ‘giant alien mice’ at the base and _that_ was why I was in his garage?”

Ratchet had been a medical professional for eons but at this moment, he realized that he was yet to achieve a whole new level of embarrassment. Since arriving on Earth, Optimus and he were rarely intimate, but those few times had been intensely passionate. Ratchet _had_ hoped that the noise of subpar human machinery would distract from the sound but also, overcharged Ratchet had few concerns.

“It's …complicated.” Ratchet said, “It’s not like I’ve fallen _out_ of love with Optimus…but I’m not sure if I can take it anymore. Watching him make the same mistakes over and over again, and then leaving me behind to pick up the pieces. Then he shows back up again and expects me to think nothing of it! As if it's normal for him to just sacrifice himself. I think back on the friends we’ve lost and I…”

Ratchet could tolerate death. He had seen it both up close and far away. He spent his mechhood ruining lives and only after he tired of seeing energon on his fist after he was sickened by the High Council’s corruption and Functionist policies did he swear to change. Orion Pax had given him hope to restart and make Cybertron a better place.

And now, a six million and something years later, Ratchet sat in a shabby commissary staring at food of questionable edibility and trying to comprehend how much had changed between Orion Pax and him. Between _Optimus Prime_ and him.

“I... think I understand how you feel,” Arcee said, “When someone you love is taken from you, you go through a process to cope. I went through that after what happened to Tailgate. Having to do it again but for Cliffjumper…it almost _broke_ me.”

Ratchet recalled too vividly what Arcee went through. He had fought with Optimus over taking Arcee off the frontlines, letting the femme mentally recover from the trauma of not just losing a partner but seeing him transformed into a monster. It was impossible though. The Autobots were outnumbered and outgunned and Arcee was the most competent fighter.

Ratchet had hated having the humans around at first, but their presence had done wonders for Autobot morale. Being around the humans—around Jack, Miko, and Raf—and hearing their small world of petty worries like school and responsibilities was soothing. Arcee was always willing to hear Miko talk music, Jack complain about the service industry, Raf gushing about the joke that was the American space program because such talk staved off her own darkness for a bit longer.

Still, Ratchet wished they had melted Airachnid and Starscream when they had the chance.

“I can’t imagine dealing with reversing the…grieving process.” Arcee said, “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. It can’t be easy for Optimus either; having to come back to life after surrendering so many times. There could be protocols going on inside of him just as they are with you.”

“I’m certain there is, and its name is the Matrix.” Ratchet snorted. Optimus may have emptied the Matrix of Leadership, but Ratchet doubted its tendrils were completely loose. He wasn’t about to pity Optimus or his revolving door of death. At least not _sober_.

Ratchet stood, taking his oil latte. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a meeting to prep for. Will you be in attendance or are you pretending to be busy?”

“I’m in since Wheeljack’s on monitor duty,” Arcee said.

Ratchet rolled his optics. Just like Wheeljack to skip out when there was actual work to be done. His comm pinged, which meant the video connection was synced and the meeting could begin. Ratchet nodded to Arcee before leaving the commissary in her company.

* * *

The meeting room was another part of the _Nemesis’s_ (rename pending) ongoing remodeling. Megatron, being a tyrant, had no reason for an official meeting room. Reports were delivered, orders were dictated, and then likely foiled by Autobots. There was no reason for them to have a long-standing meeting with opinions shared, nor the kind of space that required a table or chair as everyone said their piece. Thus, the space that had been used for the storing of spy equipment had been remade into a meeting room.

The only issue was the lack of proper furniture. Without an industrial sector or working fabricators, the Autobots were forced to reuse the Decepticon’s weird pointy aesthetic regarding tables and chairs, along with the dark palettes of black and purple. Placed against the yellows, blues, whites, and reds of Autobot paint jobs, it was a color coordination nightmare.

Not that Ratchet cared about that sort of thing; it was just impossible to ignore.

“Optimus, it’s good to see you have returned to duty.” Ultra Magnus said. An entire wall of the room was dedicated to a video screen, though it didn’t offer much clarity. The audio feed was full of static and delayed by several seconds. The visuals were disturbed with the black and white snow of electrostatic noise. Given the distance between Cybertron and Tyrest Station, it was the best they could hope for.

“It appears the All Spark has decided to return me to life once again--” Optimus began.

“Yes, but how long did it take exactly?” Ultra Magnus said.

Optimus’s optics narrowed. The mech folded his servos over each other, trying to maintain the casual nature of the meeting so far.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Optimus asked.

“It’s just…” To Ultra Magnus’ credit, he did his best to look professional. His optics looked over the stack of paperwork resting on the desk he was sitting at. “…there are some protocols to go over regarding your method of constantly cheating death. Paperwork to filed and checked over. I’m only asking out of interest of Councilor Tyrest--”

“Oh, come on!” Smokescreen groaned, “ _You_ were in the bet too?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Ultra Magnus said. After all these years, the mech’s space poker face was still perfected. “According to the Autobot manual, all forms of gambling are illegal and even if it were not, such behavior regarding the mortality of a superior would be highly unprofessional and unethical. I simply have a lot of paperwork to fill out.”

“Paperwork my blue finish.” Smokescreen whispered to Bumblebee. The yellow mech’s response was a knowing smirk.

“ _Enough_ ,” Optimus ordered. Smokescreen was at least young enough to look a little guilty, but Bumblebee continued looking relaxed in his chair as if there had been no diversion in the conversation at all. “Ultra Magnus, we require an update on the Galactic Council’s decision concerning the Bubble. When can we expect it to be dissolved?”

“Yes. Concerning that…” Ultra Magnus’ optics shifted to the left, debating his next words. Ratchet would swear he was watching something but with the low quality of the stream, it was impossible to tell. “Upon my arrival at Tyrest Station, I have learned that the Galactic Council has made several changed to their Bubble policy. Such measures have also impacted the…alignments…of Cybertronians outside of the blockade.”

“You mean the neutrals?” Arcee asked.

“What do they have to do with this?” Ratchet asked. He hadn’t expected the Galactic Council to lift the blockade, but he didn’t think the neutrals would come up. “They have no stake in this. Their colonies were stranded when the spacebridges collapsed during the first Rust Plague.”

“Some of those colonies _did_ become Autobot or Decepticon aligned,” Bulkhead said.

“That was later on,” Ratchet said, “and before the Bubble cut off trade and communication.” Which was around the time the Autobots landed on Earth and later uncovered by Agent Fowler and the rest of Unit:E. 

“Since the intensification of the Cybertronian Civil War on Earth, along with some of the inevitable casualties, the Galactic Council has shifted its policy toward the outlier colonies.” Ultra Magnus continued, “The Galactic Council has demanded that all Cybertronian colonies must surrender their alignments. No more Decepticons or Autobots. For them to dissolve the Bubble, they request that we do the same, along with accepting the Galactic Council’s new standard of rules and regulations.”

Like dropping sodium metal into water, the reaction was volatile. There was an outburst of “What?” and then “Why?”, followed by an enraged series of beeps and clicks from Bumblebee (a stress-related tic from his vocalizer that Ratchet was yet to repair). Ratchet was outraged but he had lived through plenty of injustices to not outwardly react. The room only returned to calm when Arcee gave a sharp piercing whistle, cutting through the outrage so that Optimus could speak.

“Ultra Magnus, what is the meaning of this decision?” Optimus demanded. There was no rage on his faceplate, no rumbling anger in his voice, but he was firm. “We were always assured that the Bubble would be dissolved that the war would be concluded. Until this point in time, the Galactic Council was fine with Cybertronian governance. What has changed? And what does Tyrest have to say about this?”

Ultra Magnus silently stared. There was a flicker on his faceplate and Ratchet wondered if it was sympathy. It was only then Ratchet’s optics scanned Ultra Magnus’s chassis. The red Autobot shield was no longer present; only a shadow and scuff mark suddenly and roughly removed. 

“Magnus,” Optimus said, and his voice was a touch softer.

“I…” Ultra Magnus’ optics looked the left again before he cleared his vocalizer. “Optimus, while it is true you have been the unchallenged leader of the Autobots for most of the War, you are no politician. You were never a councilor. You were not even elected to be Prime. You were chosen by an old system that, by your admission, failed us. In a post-war society, what Cybertron needs is stability and that can only come from proper government and resources.

“The Well of AllSparks may be lit now but that does not guarantee food, housing, or employment for those who will flock to Cybertron. It does not even guarantee the costs, materials, or workforce required for reconstruction. You know as well as I do that the mines of Cybertron are tapped out and most of its wildlife and natural resources decimated. Part of the cause for the War was not just the imbalance of the caste system but the economic stagnation that plagued Cybertron.

“The Galactic Council is willing to extend to Cybertron the same aid they give every other space-faring civilization in dire straits. It is a simple exchange: resources, money, and security for the future of Cybertron. All they request is adherence to their rules and regulations.”

“And if we refuse?” Optimus asked.

Ultra Magnus’s entire frame went still.

“Optimus, please. Consider the future--” Ultra Magnus began.

“ _If_ we refuse, Ultra Magnus?” Optimus pressed.

“Then the Bubble remains as is,” Ultra Magnus’ voice is soft, hardly above a whisper, “and you will run out of resources and you will all _starve_.”

No one in the room speaks or moves. There is no outrage at this barefaced ultimatum. Ratchet’s optics are on Optimus. The mech’s battle mask is not snapped on so his face visible, frozen in an expression of neutrality. Ratchet thinks back to Orion Pax, an archivist who was treated no better than a drone. A mech whose education and upbringing told him to collect data rather than think for himself. A mech who taught himself the ways of battle to protect the rights of the billions of low castes against the handful of upper castes who would gladly see Cybertron rot if it meant their wealth and comfort. 

But this was no longer Orion Pax standing in this room, but Optimus Prime. 

“Optimus,” Ultra Magnus continued, “the Galactic Council are not the malicious aristocrats of the High Council or a tyrant like Megatron. Their policies are strictly against castes, slavery, and gladiatorial matches. They want to reintroduce Cybertronians to the rest of the galaxy and dispel the myth that we’re a species of anti-organic, warmongering brutes, but none of this can happen if we don’t extend the proverbial olivenite branch first. Optimus, were you not the one who wanted to broker for peace with Megatron for years? Didn’t you say we should compromise and make change peacefully rather than through violence and aggression? Those were the words you spoke to the High Council as Orion Pax…or have you forgotten that mech?”

Optimus Prime does not move or speak. Then his servos clench so hard that Ratchet can see the metal tendons in his wrist pop out. The cables made a hard crackling as they move into a nigh unbearable tension.

“We would like to request the Galactic Council’s rules be made available to us,” Optimus stated, “and then we will discuss this in one Cybertronian week.” Ultra Magnus opened his mouth, perhaps to protest the delayed decision, but Optimus quickly said, “We are _done_ here.”

Ultra Magnus shut his mouth and then nodded.

“Ultra Magnus, signing off.” Ultra Magnus stated and then the feed cut.

Silence filled the meeting room. Optimus’s optics don’t leave the darkened video screen, his servos still tightly clenched. Without a word, Ratchet looked at Arcee and the femme cleared her intake, saying something about checking on the Vehicon patrol reports. The others make their excuses and slowly leave the room.

Optimus is too distracted to say a word against ending the meeting early when there are a hundred other things on the docket that need to be discussed. Ratchet should have his complaints, but he can’t look away from the other mech. Only when they’re alone does Ratchet leave his chair and approach Optimus. The medic gently takes Optimus’ servo, running his fingers along the wrist cables.

Optimus looked at the older mech, his optics full of questions.

“I keep telling you to relax your grip,” Ratchet said, “or it’ll get stuck like this.” It doesn’t take more cajoling to get Optimus to open his servo. The cables loudly pop as the tension eases.

Optimus does not look at his hand or Ratchet’s face. His optics are shrunken to pinpricks, focused as his processor buzzes. If the former Prime had not mastered his emotions, Ratchet knew he would be shaking with a terrifying rage that could raze Iacon once more.

“I knew it would come to this,” Optimus whispered, “but I had hoped it would not. I had hoped that the Galactic Council and Tyrest…” He shook his helm, “I was a fool to think otherwise and yet I cannot deny their truths. Cybertron is a ruin and although we may have the Well, that does not finish the long work ahead of us. Work that cannot be done on our own with such a meager, unskilled crew. We do not even have the resources to train the medics, engineers, and others we need. I have no doubt we would starve if the _Nemesis_ were to completely shut down...”

“And yet you did not immediately agree.” Ratchet said.

Optimus’s servos gave a twitch, threatening to curl back up again.

“If I were still a Prime, I would have.” Optimus said, “The wisdom of the ancients, the knowledge of the past Primes, would have swayed me to think on the greater good. It would have insisted I could turn the Galactic Council’s bias against them and secretly change their system from within. But I am not a Prime, nor am I Orion Pax. I am simply Optimus, and although I am willing to compromise and bend, I will _not_ allow a future where Cybertron becomes just another imperial steppingstone for the Galactic Council to crush under its pede.”

“Foot,” Ratchet corrects, being more familiar with the entirely organic Galactic Council, “and I say if it’s a government the Council wants, we give it to them.”

Optimus shuttered his optics. “What exactly do you mean…?”

Ratchet could see the mech’s processor stutter on what to refer to him as. Pet names were out of the question and ‘old friend’ was still debatable. It was something Ratchet would have to think about later when the situation was less dire.

“Every civilization has to start somewhere,” Ratchet said, “We still have the Key to Vector Sigma, which means we can acquire the knowledge hidden in there. We also have Fowler and those in Unit:E. From what I’ve observed, most of human history involves establishing and disestablishing governments. Given their shorter lifespans and lack of durability, I’m sure we can throw a government together with their help.” 

Optimus’s optics widen and then he smiled.

“After all this time, I thought you were done surprising me,” Optimus said.

“Same to you.” Ratchet said. Then the mech sighed, “Optimus, about yesterday. I was…”

“Ratchet.” Optimus held up his other servo. “It’s alright. I think it will make a world of a difference if we could just…pause on our relationship. At least until we’re comfortable and certain with each other, rather than rush back into a forced sense of ‘normalcy’.”

“That’s…understandable.” Ratchet said.

Ratchet had gotten used to a certain pattern when it came to Optimus and his spark’s avoidance of death. Optimus would resurrect, Ratchet would be angry and push Optimus away, then Ratchet would feel bad for Optimus or there would be a crisis that would require Ratchet to rethink the (relative) shortness of their lives, and he would forgive Optimus…typically in time for a long frag session. Usually sober.

Usually.

“I’ll start by contacting the humans. No time like the present.” Ratchet said.

“Agreed.” Optimus removed a datapad from his subspace and held it in his other servo. “It seems I will be spending most of my day combing through whatever paperwork Ultra Magnus sends me. Given the speed of our server, I’ll be spending half of the day just downloading the first two pages.”

“I’m surprised you’re going to read it at all.”

“I’m stalling,” Optimus admitted, “but I _am_ curious to see what Tyrest thinks is ‘the best’ for his people.” He sighed, “Sometimes I wish Megatron had imploded him along with the rest of the High Council.”

“Sometimes.” Ratchet admitted with a wry grin.

It was then Ratchet realized he was still holding Optimus’s servo. Despite the size difference between them, Optimus’s servo always snugly fit in his own. If they were resuming their normal routine, Optimus would kiss Ratchet’s servo or do something far more lascivious with it.

Ratchet pushed the memory away and removed his servo. He walked to the door, hoping to leave the room before the awkwardness between them became unbearable. He opened the door expecting an empty hallway.

What he did _not_ expect was an audience of his subordinates.

“Ten shanix says there are a few questionable stains on the table.” Knockout said.

“If that’s true, I’m skipping the next couple of meetings,” Arcee muttered.

“Hey, if we have to suffer so do you!” Bulkhead insisted.

“What are you lugnuts doing?” Ratchet growled.

The three bots looked at Ratchet like protoforms who had been discovered sneaking energon goodies.

“Team-building exercise?” Arcee suggested.

“Just on my way to the engine room,” Bulkhead said and began walking past Arcee.

“Eyp-eyp-eyp! Front and center, _all_ of you!” Ratchet said, “Arcee, comm Jack at Skyvault. Leave out the Galactic Council but tell him we’re trying to establish the basics of a government. He’s majoring in politics so he should be of help. Bulkhead, skip the engine room, and head to Wheeljack to see what the state of our communications is. And _Knockout_ , I see you slinking away!”

Knockout froze mid-step and slowly turned around.

“Slink away? _Moi_?” Knockout said, batting his optic lashes, “As a loyal, humble, and handsome Autobot trainee, I would _never_ think of shirking my duties.”

“Looked more like sashay to me,” Arcee muttered.

Knockout huffed and his helm did an impertinent flick. If he had hair instead of a metal mold on his helm, the gesture might have meant something. “Like you even _know_ how to sashay, sister.”

Ratchet decided to grab Knockout and forcibly drag him away rather than let Arcee and him snipe at each other.

“I swear, you’re a bunch of mechlings.” Ratchet grumbled.

“Don’t you mean sparklings?” Knockout asked.

“It’s the same thing.”

“I’m _pretty_ _sure_ sparklings are younger than mechlings.”

“Terminology doesn’t matter.” Ratchet only released Knockout when the others were out of hearing range. 

“Says the bot who insists on saying ‘canoodle’ instead of ‘frag’, like his alt-mode is a Model T.” Knockout scoffed.

Ratchet’s servo felt unusually grimy. He looked at his fingers and saw it was covered in red and black flakes. He looked at Knockout, who was scratching an arm and sending down a rain of paint chips.

“Knockout, how long have you been flaking like this?” Ratchet asked.

Knockout shrugged. “Like, a week? I don’t know. You’re the one who insisted on giving me a checkup.”

“I prescribed you medical-grade for your malnutrition but this level of paint flakeage is different.” Ratchet said, “Your nanites should be repairing this damage unless there’s something more serious going on.”

“But I just had an examination _yesterday_ …” Knockout groaned.

“Which you ran out on!” Ratchet said, “You can work and be examined at the same time.”

Knockout griped and groaned to the medbay, but Ratchet doesn’t let the former ‘Con loose. While Ratchet observed Knockout’s medical feed through a port, Knockout looked over a datapad containing the current count of their medical supplies. Medical supplies were sparse until they had uncovered various hidden caches, but it was far from ideal even for the skeleton crew the Autobots were running.

“Knockout, no wonder you’re flaking! Your oil pressure is through the roof.” Ratchet muttered, “I’m surprised your spark hasn’t started sputtering.”

“Is that going by human or Cybertronian roofs? Rooves? Whatever.” Knockout asked. He scrolled through the datapad and frowned, “Gods, we’re out of zinc shots again?”

“I’ve noticed,” Ratchet said, “They seem to disappear as soon as we can get the fabricator up.” He lingered on his words, not accusing Knockout but questioning the whereabouts of the missing supplies.

Knockout’s optics narrowed. “Unlike _you_ , I’m not the type to get hyped up on chemical enhancers.” He looked back to the datapad, “Not that what’s missing would give you much of a high: magnesium, benzene, hydroxyl, and a bunch of nitrates. The worst thing you could do with that is make someone fall asleep and not even deep enough for date-rape.”

“Okay, firstly: I’m _very_ concerned that you know that last thing,” Ratchet said, “and secondly, Knockout, you may not have cybercrosis or GPS but stress would explain the paint flaking, nausea, and moodiness.”

“I’m not _moody_!” Knockout growled and to prove his point, he flung the datapad on the ground in a manner that was _definitely_ not the behavior of an irritable mechling being denied a toy. “Just because I’m not a chipper Autobot doesn’t make me ‘moody’! Oh, how about _this_ , doc? How about I just _squash_ my feelings and pretend to be the most cheerful little mech that stepped out of the Well? Would you _prefer_ that?”

The red mech dilated his optics and fluttered his lashes. The effect was disturbing on an adult faceplate, as if Knockout was a nightmare that had stepped directly out of Shirley Template commercial.

“Is this better, Ratchet? I’m so whimsical and wonderful now!” Knockout even pitched up his vocalizer for an added aura of glee.

“Knockout--”

“Look at me! I’m Iacon’s favorite little darling!” Knockout giggled in a way no adult mech ever should, “ _Mechanimal crackers in my energon soup, ro-simians, and dexi-squirrels loop da loop,”_

“Knockout. Stop deflecting.” Ratchet said, quietly.

Ratchet was old, even by long-lived Cybertronian standards. He had seen battles and dealt with all kinds of mechs. He knew Knockout’s type—a mech who was used to being yelled at, shoved around, thrown into things, and worse. With a mech like Knockout, quiet worked best. Quiet and a lot of patience.

Knockout’s optics shift in the socket and then he shuttered them. When they opened again, they were back to regular size. The mech was still sullen though and turned his helm from Ratchet, staring at the wall.

“Knockout, I’ve been a medic long enough to recognize the symptoms of mental trauma,” Ratchet said, “and unless you want to sit here all day and have me lecture you from the big pad of medical protocols”—and here Ratchet pointed to the shelf above his desk, where there was volume upon volume of medical jargon condensed into the thickest datapads to ever be 3D printed—“straight from the mouth of Ultra Magnus himself, you should tell me what’s _actually_ bothering you. I don’t have to be a genius to figure out that the way you’re feeling ties into directly into the situation you’re, _quite literally_ , carrying around. And let me tell you, I would rather not read from the medical datapad, but I _will_ be forced to do so given the Autobot protocols for mentally troubled mechs.”

“Like I told you yesterday: it’s nothing.” Knockout said, but the mech wouldn’t look at him. “Can you even hear me, or did you leave your audials in Iacon? When it was standing, I mean.”

Ratchet sighed. He walked to the shelf and picked up the first datapad. After a second of searching, he found the entry, cleared his vocalizer, and began speaking in his Ultra Magnus impersonation voice (something Ratchet perfected many eons ago):

“Diagnosis of major depression is often made by processor health medic-engineering professionals during structured clinical interviews using criteria described in the _Cybertronian Megatrends Complete Hardware Diagnostics,_ Industry Standards edition, text revision (CMCHD-IS-TR). Hereupon such screening methods, such as the Primer of Diagnostic Imaging Depression Scale (PDIDS), (see reference Figure 2, footnote L) have been developed for assessing issues such as--”

“Gah! Enough!” Knockout hissed, “I never thought someone could be worse than _Shockwave_ when it comes to technobabble, but you take the oil cake!”

“I’m not even done with the first paragraph,” Ratchet said, not looking up from the datapad, “If you want a break, I suggest you take it now.”

“Alright, _alright_! You made your point.” Knockout winced as he forcibly unplugged himself from the medical analyzer. Even though the mech was surrendering, he was still glowering and grumbling, “I haven’t been… _particularly_ observant with my finish lately because there’s a power shortage in my habsuite. My new habsuite is on the far side of the ship, where the power’s been inconsistent. If I plug in my buffer, _boom_! There goes the circuit breaker. And you bunch won’t let me near it without access codes; not that I could reset it if I wanted.”

“What about your previous habsuite?” It wasn’t like the Autobots hadn’t offered Knockout to return to his old quarters when he first defected.

Knockout’s shoulder pauldrons stiffened and Ratchet was immediately reminded of an Earth cat fluffing out its fur.

“I’d rather… _not_.” Knockout said, “As I said before, new me, new habsuite. It’s not like there was much in there. A berth, my additional tools, my vanity, and my pa…” The words in Knockout’s vocalizer stuttered. The red mech shut his lips and then hunched over, nearly folding in on himself. “Anyway, you stuffed it with Vehicons. Let _them_ enjoy the leaking ceiling and cracked window.”

 _Partner,_ Ratchet realized, _He was going to say ‘partner’._

Ratchet combed through his database listing the names of Decepticons alive and dead, narrowing down the list for Knockout’s potential partners. During his brief stay on the _Nemesis,_ Ratchet had only seen Shockwave working alongside Knockout. The _Nemesis_ seemed emptier at that time. Had something happened before Ratchet was onboard?

“Knockout,” Ratchet said, “I recall you not mentioning who the sire is.”

“They’re dead.” Knockout repeated.

That statement didn’t narrow down the list. If anything, it added more candidates. Given the protoform’s current size, Ratchet estimated conception was around the time Smokescreen phase-shifted Knockout into a wall, which jolted his reproduction control. Then again, that was according to _Knockout_ , a science academy dropout who learned medicine from old technical manuals that have been outdated for thousands of years. Not that Ratchet was a better expert. He had graduated as a surgeon-engineer with a specialty in energontology. Blacksmithing courses weren’t even offered at Protihex Medical Mechanics University when Ratchet had been attending.

“Soundwave?” Ratchet suggested. Perhaps an offensively incorrect guess could prompt the red mech into spilling the nutrient crystals?

“He’s not _dead_!” Knockout snapped, as if the very suggestion of Soundwave’s death offended Primus, “He’s just trapped a weird dimension. The shadow realm or whatever the humans call it. Knowing that silent creep, he’s put himself in stasis until someone rescues him. Probably his ‘children’.”

Damn it, Ratchet had forgotten about Soundwave’s little parasites. Laserbeak had been the only one the Autobots had to deal with on Earth. It made Ratchet wonder where the others had gone, although his processor could no longer remember how many creations Soundwave even had. He made a memo to see if there was a listing of them in the decrypted Decepticon files.

“The only other one I can--” Ratchet began.

“I wouldn’t frag Megatron if my life depended on it!” Knockout snorted, “No one but Starscream would wrestle with that dark energon tainted spike, and honestly? They deserve each other. Crazy attracts crazy.” He pushed himself off the medical berth, “Now, are you going to let me work, or are you insisting I take a break since I’m delicate as a daffodil now?”

Ratchet rolled his optics and pointed to the console opposite his desk, “Fine then. I could use more help decrypting.”

“Seriously?” Knockout slumped, “I meant actual _medical_ work, not playing archivist!”

Ratchet shrugged, “You’re the one who knows Shockwave’s encryptions and you’re determined to prove yourself useful.”

Knockout grunted something about “annoying old mechs” but walked to the console. Despite his complaining, Knockout was the faster typist and could take apart Shockwave’s files in triple the time than an Autobot could by brute-forcing through the ciphers.

Ratchet sat at his desk and returned to the seemingly endless task of sorting through old datapads. He had already made three dedicated piles with the ‘???’ pile steadily becoming the largest. The arduous task was hampered by occasional interruptions: Vehicons complaining of injuries (typically caused by clumsiness and poor aim), Smokescreen’s culinary misadventures backfiring and requiring Bulkhead to have his digestive tank pumped (again), and the results of one small fire caused by tinfoil in the microwave.

Ratchet had to cross out _~~5~~ 0 Days Since Foil-Related Fire _on the medbay bulletin board.

By the middle of the second shift, Ratchet had ordered Knockout to take a meal break in the commissary rather than keep working at the console. If it were up to the red and black mech, Knockout would work all day and barely fuel. No, Knockout needed rest and Ratchet wanted his daily thirty minutes of silence comfy-chair-nap.

Once the nap was completed, Ratchet moved onto his next task: comm check-ins. First up was Arcee.

 **[Arcee, I need you to temporarily relax Knockout’s security parameters. He needs a Cybertronian alt-mode.]** Ratchet sent.

The message immediately came back in Arcee’s pastel text.

**[ARCEE: Srsly? Im trying 2 parse through this glitch of a pdf jack just sent me about human revolutions & governance & now I have 2 deal with mister grumpy? Whatd I do?]**

**[Nothing besides be the head of security detail,]** Ratchet said, **[and Knockout needs a Cybertronian alt-mode. He’s going to get stir-crazy cooped up inside the Nemesis.]**

**[ARCEE: Whatev. RC out.]**

Ratchet wondered if it was such a good idea to have let the subordinates have free reign of the human internet and culture. Even Soundwave had put a ‘child filter’ on the _Nemesis’_ server after an infestation of trojan horses and sultry pop-ups. The Autobots had fewer datanet related incidents, but they had Raf as their tech person. Humans were yet to invent a virus that the kid couldn’t snuff out.

 **[Bulkhead, how are things in communications?]** Ratchet asked. 

Bulkhead’s processing power had never been the greatest so his comms were always slow and sparse.

**[BULKHEAD: NOTHING DOC]**

**[BULKHEAD: JACKYS TRYING TO FIGURE IT OUT]**

**[BULKHEAD: WILL REPORT LATER OVER]**

Ratchet sighed. He had a feeling the communication issues on the ship wouldn’t be solved anytime soon.

 **[Bumblebee, whats your status?]** Ratchet sent.

**[BUMBLEBEE: on patrol and, yup still Brown and rusting outside]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: you need something, Big R? B)]**

**[I told you not to call me that.]** Ratchet growled and if he could figure out how, he’d send a displeased emoji. **[I told Arcee to give Knockout permission to go on an alt-mode hunt. I think some time outside the ship will elevate his mood. Also, see if you can find a way to…]** And Ratchet couldn’t believe he was saying this, **[…buff him.]**

There was a long stretch of silence from Bumblebee. Ratchet checked to see if the server had crashed but it was still (barely) functioning.

 **[Bumblebee?]** Ratchet sent.

Another lapse and then,

**[BUMBLEBEE: uh]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: are you asking me to do what i *think* youre asking me or did my processor just glitch…?]**

**[I know it’s not your ‘thing’, but I want you to put yourself in Knockout’s situation,]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: uh. okay…]**

**[The movement you identify with no longer exists.** **Your comrades are dead, along with the co-creator of your sparkling. The only remaining place of safety is among your enemies. They _say_ they accept you, but you’re technically a prisoner awaiting trial. **

**[This situation is stressing you out. You don’t like stress, so you pretend everything is fine, but you’re not as fun as you used to be. You stop caring about your looks. You stop being social. You actively avoid places that remind you of the past. The truth is that you need a friend, but you have no idea how to ask that of your enemies.**

**[Do you understand now, Bumblebee?]**

More silence, but this time Ratchet didn’t prompt him. He let his words sink in.

**[BUMBLEBEE: yeah. i think…i get it]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: i get it…a *lot* actually]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: when megatron destroyed my vocalizer, i remember how angry i was. no one could understand me, and it was just…]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: …]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: …i felt stranded, But you and the others were always there to support me Because Autobots leave no one Behind: on or off the Battlefield. knockout isnt much of an autobot But we should still treat him like one]**

**[If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were stealing one of Optimus’s lines.]** Ratchet said.

**[BUMBLEBEE: yeah. well]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: you learn from the Best! B) ]**

Bumblebee instantly signed off. Ratchet wished the young mech had better comm etiquette, but he wasn’t Ultra Magnus. The medic had better things to do than lecture a coworker about petty details.

Ratchet checked his chronometer. He had a few extra minutes in his schedule. He could comm Optimus…but he had no idea about what. The power situation on the _Nemesis_ was in Wheeljack’s servos. Arcee was reading about the basics of governance. Smokescreen was training the less intelligent Vehicons the most basic tasks like item organization and window washing.

There was no reason for Ratchet to frivolously speak to Optimus. No reason at all. Instead, Ratchet comm’d Knockout.

 **[Knockout! Good news!]** Ratchet said, **[As a reward for good behavior, you get to go on a little trip…]**


	13. Bumblebee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: starting at "knockout stared at him" -- non-graphic discussion of gender dysphoria/frametype dysphoria, transgender equivalencies, transphobia, child abandonment/neglect, past character death

> **Bumblebee gets a lesson in Decepticon culture and does some accidental urban exploration, which isn’t a bad choice for a first date, but it’ll never beat one-credit shot night down at Plug n’ Play.**

Thoughts bumped and knocked around Bumblebee’s processor and each of them screamed for his attention. Humming echoes through his helm as his processor fans click on, attempting to cool the overworking hard drive as it tries to pick apart all the information just dumped on it. The Galactic Council. The Bubble. The further devastation of Cybertron.

Partially functioning on autopilot, Bumblebee left the meeting room, swerved around Arcee, and shifted to alt-mode. He sped down the hall, ignoring the Vehicons that tried to talk to him. He kept driving ahead, not thinking on a destination but what could be done. What _he_ could do, knowing the state of things.

“Whoa, Bee! Where’s the fire?” Wheeljack asked.

Bumblebee screeched to a halt and was glad his brakes were recently checked. Wheeljack stood in the hall, smeared with grease and oil as he sipped from a box of energon. Bumblebee returned to root mode and exhaled. His fuel pump was still hyped up and his fans whirling.

“Sorry. Wasn’t thinking. Just…driving.” Bumblebee muttered. 

“Meeting didn’t go too great, huh?”

“You have no idea,”

“Glad I skipped out.” Wheeljack finished the energon box and crushed it before tossing it down the incinerator wall slot. “Wreckers were never about meetings. Just get to point A and then to point B. Do some shooting along the way if you have to.”

Bumblebee looked at the other mech’s splattered condition. “What have you been doing: oil wrestling?”

“Dealing with the communication problem,” Wheeljack said and stepped through the door to the bridge. 

Having nothing better to do, Bumblebee followed the mech. Once again, the guts of the communications array were spilled on the floor and there was an assembly of duct-taped datapads plugged into where Smokescreen and Bumblebee had made their previous modifications. There was one functioning screen console, but it was full of Cybertronian binary code that Bumblebee couldn’t make helm or aft of. The main screen had a static-filled display of Cybertron, which was partially blacked out.

“Is it working?” Bumblebee asked.

“Barely.” Wheeljack said, “Took me twenty minutes to realize most of the array’s higher functions were blocked off by some glitch of a passcode. No way I was gonna spend the next thousand years decipher a single glyph of Soundwave’s code, so I brute forced it through the hardware.”

That explained Wheeljack’s current state. “Any closer to figuring out how the _Nemesis_ works?”

Wheeljack shook his helm. “The ship is still underpowered. I thought it was a loose wire but then I looked at the engines. No way engines _that_ small could’ve powered a ship this size. There has to be a secondary power source, but I got no clue where it is. I’m not even sure where _this_ is drawing power.” He tapped the communication array. “There are wires that go nowhere and other unmarked bits. This whole ship’s like a bad joke.”

“Soundwave _was_ the one processing keeping the Decepticon cause, and the _Nemesis,_ afloat.” Bumblebee said. Thinking on Decepticons jangled a chip in Bumblebee’s processor, reminding him of his conversation with Knockout last night. “The Wreckers spent time with neutrals before joining the Autobots. You know anything about Decepticons?”

Wheeljack didn’t look up from the tangle of wires he was picking apart. “Like how to tear them apart?”

“I mean their culture.” Though Bumblebee wasn’t sure ‘culture’ was the right word. 

Wheeljack paused in his untangling and smirked. “Trouble in speedster paradise?”

“What? _No!_ ”

“Bee, your optics are dilated.”

“W-what?” Bumblebee looked at his faceplate in the reflective computer screen, only to hear Wheeljack cackle.

“ _Ha_! Bulkhead owes me!” Wheeljack said.

“Have you all been _betting_ on my love life? Not cool, ‘Jack!” Bumblebee huffed.

“Oh, like _you_ haven’t done the same.” Wheeljack snorted. Bumblebee sputtered outraged static as the other mech continued, “What d’you need to know so you can get down to business with short, red, and mouthy?”

“I’m not doing ‘business’ with anyone!” Bumblebee insisted, “We were talking about…” It was then Bumblebee realized he couldn’t mention ‘conjunx’ without Wheeljack jumping to conclusions. “…certain terms. In the Autobot manual. Knockout didn’t know what they meant.”

Wheeljack’s faceplate went from smarmy to thoughtful. “We had some ex-Cons in the Wreckers. Never lasted though. Maybe cause most of us came outta Iacon or those isolated villages like the Doc did. Most ‘Cons were from Vos, Tarn, and Kaon.”

“You mean Meg’s old stomping grounds?” Bumblebee’s knowledge of those cities began and ended with that fact.

“Kaon more than anywhere else. That place was the fuel pump of Cybertron’s mining industry. So fulla holes that bots started living in them cause the commute to work was shorter that way. When the mines dried up, the High Council legalized gladiatorial combat to keep the low castes happy. Not that it made much difference to the crime lords that ran the place. Bots from Kaon didn’t do conjunx or amica. Just had everything rolled up into one.”

“What?” Now Bumblebee was certain his optics were dilated in shock and fascination. “You’re messing with me. There’s no way the High Council would allow something so…” Was perverted the right word? Strange? What about ‘chaotic and dangerous’? Bumblebee settled on, “Unusual.”

“You should know better than anybody that when credits were involved, the High Council decided their optics didn’t function.” Wheeljack said, “Mining and gladiating was risky work. When you’re always in danger of a cave-in, explosion, or deadly radiation, you don’t have time for the complex stuff. It’s all wham, bam, thank-you-now-scram.” He rolled his optics, “Though you may as well be conjunx if you get a ‘thank you’.”

The door irised open as Bulkhead entered the bridge.

“Ratchet wants a report on our communications,” Bulkhead said.

“Figures he’d ask for that when we don’t got much to deliver,” Wheeljack said and turned his attention back to the array.

Bumblebee was a scout, not a communications expert, so he exited the bridge. With a wave of his servo, he exited the bridge, shifted into alt-mode, and headed outside to start morning patrol.

* * *

The Well of the All Sparks was the only sign of life on Cybertron and even then, it was dull in the abrasive light of triple suns or barely due to the abrasive waves of an impending rust storm. Bumblebee drove through the empty streets, skirting around piles of rusting husks yet to be placed in mass graves and collapsed buildings. The old maps of Cybertron were no longer accurate so patrolling also included Bumblebee mentally mapping out where he had been.

Optimus called the area they had crash-landed in New Iacon, but for all they knew they could be sitting on the remains of Uraya or Protihex. Even the position of the Mithril Sea had shifted, filling in the gaps of bombed-out polities and villages. Identifying landmarks had been torn down or melted and the Well’s current location was (according to Ratchet) different from before the War.

**[Beta, Gamma, Steve, report.]** Bumblebee comm’d.

**[Sector 3 is clear, sir. Beta out.]**

**[Nothing to report in Sector 6. Gamma out.]**

There was silence from Steve.

**[Steve?]** he prompted.

**[Oh! Y-you were talking to me, my lord?]** came the nervous stammer.

Bumblebee sighed through his speakers and pinged the Vehicon’s location. Bumblebee found the Vehicon pacing around a pile of jagged and half-melted slag five miles from the _Nemesis_ (rename pending). He was fiddling with his claws as if he had forgotten their function.

**[It’s just ‘Bumblebee’, Steve. I’m not your lord.]** Bumblebee sent.

Naming conventions had been the most difficult aspect to teach the newly liberated Vehicons. Decepticons hierarchy was chaotic but always strict in its ranking (ironic, given how anti-caste Megatron was). Most Vehicons still wrestled with concepts like designations, personal living quarters, standardized rations, worker’s rights, unions, and break time.

**[Oh. Yes. Right.]** Steve still fiddled nervously. His optical panel faced the horizon of the destroyed city, yet to notice Bumblebee’s presence.

Steve was a space cadet on his best days but today, he seemed especially… _spacey_. Bumblebee shifted to root mode.

“Steve.” Bumblebee said.

“ _Ahhh_!” Steve jumped nearly three feet in the air. He spun toward Bumblebee with his wings flared out, hoping to look larger and therefore more threatening to whatever danger he sensed. “My lo—uh, _sir_!” The Vehicon gave a quick, awkward salute. “Um, the area is all clear! _Sir_!”

“You’ve made a lot of progress, Steve.” Bumblebee said, “Before you would have fallen on your knee-joints, begging me to not hit you upside the helm for loafing.”

Ratchet said the Vehicons lacked self-esteem, so the Autobots had taken care to encourage them when possible. Yes, it felt ridiculous and pandering to lavish praise on adult soldiers, but it did improve morale.

“D-do you _want_ me to do that, sir?” Steve asked.

“No, Steve. You’re an Autobot. You don’t need to grovel like a…”

‘Slave’ was inappropriate, as the Vehicons were Shockwave’s creations and were not forced to function in their tasks. ‘Drone’ was also inappropriate as the Vehicons had sparks. ‘Servant’ was inappropriate because the Decepticons never paid the Vehicons a wage of currency and/or rations.

“You’re my… _coworker_ , Steve.” Bumblebee said, “There’s no need to be afraid of me.”

Steve nodded but his optical visor returned to the horizon.

“Something on your mind?” Bumblebee asked.

“Oh. Well.” Steve returned to fiddling with his talons. “It’s…ridiculous. Not something I should bother you with, sir.” 

“It’s not a bother to tell me how you feel, Steve.”

“It’s not just me. I mean, its… _I_ don’t think it’s a big deal but some of the others…” Steve shrugged awkwardly. “ _Some_ of us were talking in the barracks last night and there’s… _something_ about the ruins that we don’t… _like._ ”

Bumblebee shuttered his optics. “You don’t… _like_ it?” He looked at the walls of molten and broken slag. “I’ll admit it’s not nice looking but that’ll be fixed once we start construction.”

Steve shook his helm. “No, um. Maybe ‘not like’ is the wrong word? It gives me, uh, _us_ a weird feeling in our processor. Certain spots I stand in just make me feel a…. _pain_ in my spark. But not _real_ pain but like the…echo of a pain? It just _hurts_ and it makes me want to _leave_ , but my systems are always optimal, sir. But it's familiar too; the pain I mean.” He rubbed a talon on his chassis. “The humans have a word for it. It’s…that feeling you get when you’ve never been somewhere before but it’s also familiar?”

“Déjà vu?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Steve’s wings moved up and down in excitement. Then the flicking slowly stopped, and the wings drooped, “But that doesn’t explain why I, uh, _we_ feel this way. I’ve never been on Cybertron. I was made in a lab by Lord Shockwave on the _Nemesis_. So…why does my spark hurt, sir? Why does it…”

Steve’s talon clutched his chest. Bumblebee looked to the horizon and tried to pick out a conspicuous bit of architecture, a covertly hidden communication disruptor, or a magnetic tower that could be troubling the Vehicons. Bumblebee even amplified his audials for low frequencies but came up with nothing but the growl of far off animals. Aside from the wreckage, there was nothing unusual about this patch of ground.

“I think you need a break,” Bumblebee decided, “Head back to base and refuel.”

“Yes, sir!” Steve saluted and shifted to alt-mode so quickly, it would have left an unsuspecting bot’s helm spinning. It felt like the Vehicon was fleeing the scene.

Bumblebee made a memo to read Shockwave’s sparse notes concerning the Vehicons. Even with Knockout’s help, most of Shockwave’s notes were still hidden away and encoded. They were yet to find anything on the Vehicon creation process. 

Ugh. _Knockout_. That was the last mech Bumblebee should be thinking of. His recharging thoughts had been consumed by the irritating mech. He’d be having the typical defragmenting dream of collating the random bits of data built up throughout the day, only to have Knockout appear in a wall of Cybertronian code. Every glyph would shift from yellow to red, coalescing into a familiar shape with a welcoming smile. The entire virtual disk image would be Knockout running that ribbed glossa along Bumblebee’s spike and Bumblebee would force himself into start-up before overcharging.

He didn’t want to clean up spilled transfluid or have _another_ awkward conversation with his habsuite mate, Smokescreen.

Bumblebee’s comm messenger chimed, and Ratchet’s red and white message flashed in his inbox. Perfect! Just the mech Bumblebee needed for instant spike depressurization.

**[RATCHET: Bumblebee, what's your status?]**

**[on patrol,]** Bumblebee sent back, **[and, yup still Brown and rusting outside. you need something, Big R? B) ]**

**[RATCHET: I told you not to call me that.]**

Bumblebee was impressed the old mech could convey concentrated grumpiness through Cybertronian glyphs.

**[RATCHET: I told Arcee to give Knockout permission to go on an alt-mode hunt. I think some time outside the ship will elevate his mood.]**

**[RATCHET: Also, see if you can find some way to…]**

**[RATCHET:…buff him.]**

Bumblebee’s fuel pump felt like it was going to seize up. He looked over the glyphs and yes, he was reading them correctly. “Buff him”? As in _buffing_ Knockout? From the way Knockout described his (currently neglected) beauty regiment, it sounded closer to fragging than any cosmopolitan treatment Bumblebee knew of.

Did that mean Ratchet wanted Bumblebee to frag Knockout? No, that couldn’t be it. Could it? No. Definitely not. Unless…? Wait _, no!_ There was _no way_ that was what Ratchet meant! Ratchet occasionally skirted the rules, but he would never request an Autobot frag Knockout, who was technically a prisoner, even it was for the greater good. That was more of Prowl’s deal. Ratchet had hard limits on what was allowable conduct for Autobots. There was no way Ratchet was requesting Bumblebee to frag Knockout.

_Unless--_

**[RATCHET: Bumblebee?]**

Bumblebee’s processor output a terrible image: Knockout lying on the ground, smeared with the rust-stained dirt that littered ruined Cybertronian streets. His panel was open, and he was begging Bumblebee to wash him, detail him…make him like new. What Bumblebee wouldn’t give to repaint Knockout’s frame just to ruin it again by smearing wet paint on every fraggable surface.

**[uh.]** Bumblebee’s processor was sputtering, trying to push away the image. **[are you asking me to do what I think you’re asking me to do or did my processor just glitch out for a second…?]**

**[RATCHET: I know it's not your ‘thing’, but I want you to put yourself in Knockout’s situation,]**

**[uh. okay…]** Bumblebee wondered if this conversation was going to lead him down a different path in life. From commander to robo-gigolo.

**[RATCHET: The movement you identify with no longer exists.]**

Bumblebee’s tank sank so far down that if it wasn’t properly bolted in, it might have dropped out his frame. He couldn’t fathom a world without Optimus Prime or the Autobots. What would Bumblebee have become without them? He couldn’t even remember his original alt-mode or function.

**[RATCHET: Your comrades are dead, along with the co-creator of your sparkling. The only remaining place of safety is among your enemies. They _say_ they accept you, but you’re technically a prisoner awaiting trial.] **

Bumblebee had been too good of a scout to be a prisoner. At least not for long. He always found a way out through craftiness or blind luck. The Autobots supported him even during the early days when his loyalties were unclear, and he was no different from the other punk kids wandering the street. Bumblebee never needed rescuing until Megatron hijacked his processor and frame.

**[RATCHET: This situation is stressing you out. You don’t like stress, so you pretend everything is fine, but you’re not as fun as you used to be. You stop caring about your looks. You stop being social. You actively avoid places that remind you of the past. The truth is that you need a friend, but you have no idea how to ask that of your enemies.**

**[RATCHET: Do you understand now, Bumblebee?]**

Bumblebee more than understood. He remembered the worst day of his life—when his vocalizer was destroyed. At first, he hadn’t understood what was happening. The pain of crushed cables and circuits overloaded his processor, sending him into automatic shutdown. Any other mech would have instantly died from the trauma but he survived.

Bumblebee survived injury and surgery only to become an invalid, lying on a medical berth as he screeched for death with static howls and grinding cries. In the beginning, that was all he could manage. He only regained speech after years of therapy with Pharma, learning primitive Cybertronian; the language sparklings used when they were too young to patch in language updates.

**[yeah. i think…i get it.]** Bumblebee said, **[i get it…a *lot* actually. when Megatron destroyed by vocalizer, i remember how angry i was. no one could understand me, and it was just…]**

Bumblebee looked at his servo. It only had four fingers and it was so small and dainty compared to Bulkhead or Optimus’s.

**[…i felt stranded, But you and the others were always there to support me Because Autobots leave no one Behind: on or off the Battlefield. knockout isnt much of an autobot But we should still treat him like one]**

**[RATCHET: If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were stealing one of Optimus’s lines.]**

He wondered how much strength it took to rip out a vocalizer.

**[yeah. well.]**

He wondered how much strength it took to rip out of a Megatron-sized vocalizer.

**[you learn from the Best! B) ]** Bumblebee said.

Bumblebee shifted to his alt-mode and sped toward the _Nemesis_. No time like the present to get annoying tasks out of the way.

* * *

Knockout was already waiting for him in the hangar with the worst kind of grin.

“I was told you were going to be my escort for the day.” Knockout said, “Do I pay you before or after our date?”

“It’s not a date.” Bumblebee said.

And that was the theme for the entire trip. Knockout sat inside Bumblebee, cracking off every double entendre that came to processor while Bumblebee turned on the air conditioning, turned up the volume, or rolled down the windows when a rust cloud came by in the hopes of shutting the red mech up.

“So where exactly are you taking me on this lovely day?” Knockout said, once again rolling up the window. Rust particles and rocks battered against the glass, carried by winds from the Sea of Rust. “The Good ‘n Plenty? The Landing Gear? Lowrider’s? Hi-Riser’s? The Hydraulic Pumpers? T-Bucket? Scrapers? The Lead Sled? CadZZilla? Rat Rod?”

“Are those strip clubs, restaurants, or interfacing positions?”

“Why not all three?”

“Then what’s a—you know what? Never mind.” Bumblebee made a memo to search the server for some of those terms when he was using a public, untraceable terminal. (He didn’t know what a ‘T-Bucket’ was, but it sounded like something that could get you sent to counseling) “Aren’t you the _least_ bit curious about where we’re going? This is your first time outside in months and you want to spend it talking about interfacing.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Knockout asked, “We’re going to an open grave--”

“A _catacomb_!” Bumblebee insisted, “One that existed before the war. Great place to scan for alts.”

“Still a bunch of dead frames.” Knockout squinted out the window. “Are you sure you know where we’re going? That pile of rubble looks familiar.”

“I’m not lost! This is the quickest route.”

“Let’s see if you still say that after an hour.”

“I won’t because we’ll be there!”

* * *

An hour later, Bumblebee decided he needed a break. He stopped under a toppled building and changed back to root mode. Knockout got out, stretched his legs, and turned to the Autobot with a big smirk.

“Not. A. Single. Word.” Bumblebee growled.

“What? Moi? Say something?” Knockout hummed, still smiling like the rust-riddled afthole he was, “I wouldn’t _dream_ of saying something. Nope. Never. Not in a million years.”

“I _get_ it.” Bumblebee groaned.

Knockout touched his cheeks, feigning shock. “Get what exactly? Cause I can’t think of a single thing I should say. Which I won’t. Because I haven’t said a single word.”

“It’s easy to get lost when everything looks the same!” Bumblebee said, stamping his pede, “How am I supposed to tell _one_ twisted hunk of rusting metal from _another_ twisted hunk of rusting metal?”

Admittedly, it wasn’t just the environment’s fault but the densely clustered nature of Cybertronian cities. Unless you were in the southern hemisphere with its rockier, mountainous terrain, by the Mithril Sea or the Sea of Rust with their sandy patches and crystalline oases, Cybertronian terrain leaned toward the homogenous. Even before the war, it had been nigh impossible to tell where Nova Cronum began and Vos ended.

The catacombs the Autobots had acquired their alt-modes from were some distance away from the _Nemesis_ , in what had (possibly) been Protihex. Bumblebee just wasn’t sure which _part_ of Protihex. The _Nemesis_ was likely crashed in old Iacon, but no one was clear which _part_ of Iacon. They had initially crossed a bridge (or a collapsed building serving as a bridge), but there were de facto bridges _everywhere_. As far as Bumblebee could tell, Knockout and him were standing amongst some particularly tall and pointy rubble, as opposed to the slightly less pointy rubble near the _Nemesis_. Checking the GPS was futile because everything on the server related to location was pre-War and, therefore, useless.

Bumblebee exhaled and turned to Knockout, “Alright, _you_ know where we’re at, genius?”

There was no response because Knockout was no longer standing next to Bumblebee.

Bumblebee’s HUD flashed a proximity alert. The yellow mech turned around but couldn’t see or hear anything aside from the wind whistling between debris. Bumblebee cranked up his audials but there was nothing important; a blip here and a beep there. It could be a hunting turbofox or a sonicondor looking for a mate.

“Knockout?” Bumblebee called. The tracking chip wasn’t going off so Knockout hasn’t wandered out of range (not that Bumblebee could pin down without a functioning GPS). Bumblebee couldn’t see bumper nor helm of the red mech, so he switched to his comms, **[knockout, where are you?]**

Another proximity alert. Bumblebee’s cranked up audials picked up a hum, not unlike a small Earth desk fan.

Bumblebee withdrew his guns. He had been too cordial walking around in the open. Cybertronian wildlife was just as dangerous as its inhabitants. Being on the _Nemesis_ and doing the occasional, uneventful patrol had made Bumblebee forgetful. Soft. Now he was hugging every corner, watching the shadows and listening to his audials as he moved.

**[knockout, Be on alert. i’m picking up something]** Bumblebee sent, **[whats your status?]**

**[KNOCKOUT: What—I’m---]** The message was garbled in static.

**[where are you? i cant hear you]**

No response. The springs in Bumblebee’s shoulders tighten and a third proximity alarm sounded off. The low hum in his audials was moving away. Whatever had been following him may have lost interest. ‘May’ being the keyword there. Bumblebee inhaled and slowly turned a corner.

A support beam swung at him. Bumblebee jumped back and fired two shots. One laser bullet sliced through the top, melting the ancient beam.

“Servos where I can see them!” Bumblebee ordered.

“Bumblebee? What the-- _whoa_!” Knockout immediately dropped the support beam and held up his servos, “Easy there, cowbot!”

“Knockout?” Bumblebee shuttered his optics, but it was definitely Knockout. The mech had dirt and rust on his servos, legs, and knee-joints but Bumblebee would know that red paint job in his recharge. “What the pit, Knockout? I take you outside and you try to _kill_ me?”

“I didn’t know it was you!” Knockout said, “My proximity alerts were going crazy, but I couldn’t see anything, and I don’t have any range weapons so I had to improvise!”

Bumblebee kept his guns trained on the ex-Con. “Uh-huh. And where’d you run off to?”

“Are we _really_ doing this right now?” Knockout grumbled, “I’ve been with you Autobots since you won and you’re _still_ giving me the third degree?”

“From how I see it, I think we let you off the leash too early.”

Knockout smirked. “ _Leashes_ now? I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing, ‘Bee.” The red mech lowered his servos and turned away, preparing to head back to where he had been. “I’ll have to remember that the next time we’re someplace dark and mysterious.”

Oh, how Bumblebee’s processor wanted to languish on the image of Knockout at the end of a leash, begging for overload…but the yellow mech banished it. Bumblebee holstered one gun and followed Knockout, seizing the red mech by the shoulder pauldron.

“What is it, Knockout? Life not cushy enough for you on the _Nemesis_?” Bumblebee said, “Or is one of your old superiors waiting for you to come crawling back--”

Knockout whacked Bumblebee’s servo away and, if Bumblebee hadn’t stepped back, would have swiped at the yellow mech’s faceplate with a sharp talon.

“For _your_ information,” Knockout growled, “I was walking around so I could figure out our location, which I _did_ by the way! So ‘thank you’, _afthole_!”

“Oh.” Bumblebee hadn’t expected that but he wasn’t about to put away his guns. “Well. Lead the way.”

Knockout stomped off and Bumblebee followed. The yellow mech’s proximity alert was still pinging, but it was slower. That only added more water to Bumblebee’s theory that whatever had triggered it was a hungry or bored mechanimal.

Bumblebee followed Knockout past two blocks of tall and narrow buildings that were still in decent condition and cracked chunks of crystal that might have been part of a park. They arrived at what had been a city square with a statue in the middle of it. The statue was scuffed and broken but some features were recognizable: the decapitated head of a triple-faced organic alien and a lithe Seeker perched on it.

“Looks like one of Starscream’s ancestors.” Bumblebee said.

“It likely is.” Knockout muttered. His optics were glued to the statue, “We’re in Proximax which means you drove us to Vos or what _was_ Vos.” 

Before and during the War, Bumblebee had only passed through Vos on his way to Nova Cronum. Unless you had an aerial alt, it was nigh impossible to get anywhere important in Vos.

“What makes you so sure?” Bumblebee asked.

“Because I know this statue.” Knockout’s talons touched the statue’s metal base. The plague had been warped by the heat of the bombing, no more than a metal splattered. “This is Proxima, celebrating victory over an organic oppressor. Born a slave, she became a fierce warlord. She was a dedicated patron of the arts. She’s the reason why Proximax has a film industry. _Had._ ”

Knockout’s talons dug into the plaque. The sharp points screeched against the melted metal as if the red mech wished to murder what remained of Proximax’s history. 

“A heap of slag!” the red mech scoffed, “The High Council made it all up, to make Seekers seem more important than they are. There’s no real record of her. This glitch probably never _existed_! _”_ As if the base had grown hot, Knockout yanked his talon away. “Fragging city! Of all the places on Cybertron, I have to end up _here_!”

The red mech breathed quickly, looking ready to burst a pipeline. Bumblebee had a feeling Ratchet wouldn’t be happy if their adventure resulted in Knockout having a spark attack.

“Nobody likes going back to their hometown,” Bumblebee blurted out.

Knockout turned his optics at him. They were already narrowed in annoyance and seemed to be debating if talking was a better alternative than gouging the yellow mech’s optics.

“I mean, my hometown was absolute slag too.” Bumblebee quickly continued, “At least you didn’t lose your vocalizer at yours.”

Knockout tilted his helm and took in the words before his optics widened.

“Tyger Pax?” Knockout asked, “You were _from_ there?”

“Basically.” Bumblebee said, “My creche was in Tyger Pax. I _think_ I was sparked at Plurex Flats or maybe Nyon. I only remember my creche because I was on the older side when I got matched with a mentor. I got shipped to Protihex with a holo of some stranger who was supposed to teach me everything they knew so I could take up their function when their spark collapsed, or they got blown up. Whichever came first.”

Knockout’s optics returned to squinting and then dilated. Bumblebee seriously hoped the red mech wouldn’t burst into tears. He had heard carriers became overly sensitive and he was the last shoulder anyone should cry on.

Knockout faced the horizon. “If the Proxima statue is here, _that_ must be what’s left of the Cybertronian War Academy.” He pointed to a broken spire in the distance that was tilted at a thirty-degree angle. “Where did you say the grave was?”

“ _Definitely_ not in Vos. I think we took the wrong bridge.”

“Then it’s in Protihex. There are only two central bridges between here and Iacon.” Knockout looked left, “We’ll head west. There’s a sub-bridge that takes you to Protihex past the Mouth of Mortilus. Unlike _some_ mechs, I know my way around.”

They continued their trip on pede. They passed under chunks of rusting skyway, by fallen statues, and broken decorations. Occasionally Knockout would point out this or that in either irritation or nostalgic fondness. The two mechs circumvented a giant pit, of which Bumblebee hadn’t expected in a city so focused on aerial architecture.

“The Mouth of Mortilus, though we mechlets called it ‘The Slingshot’.” Knockout explained, “If you were broke and Vosnian, you lived in that dank hole.” He smiled, “When I got to the Academy, Starscream and pals tried to haze me. They dared me and some others to ride ‘the Slingshot’. There’s this weird gravity thing at the midpoint of the Mouth. You go down fast enough; it’d spit you back up twice as fast. No idea how it worked but the trick was all in the _speed_. If you didn’t drop down fast enough, you’d never hit the snapback. Go too slow and you’d smack into a low caste hovel. _If_ you didn’t die from the injuries. Not that refusing was an option. Starscream still mocked Dirge for welching out even _after_ they graduated.”

“But you didn’t?” Bumblebee asked.

Knockout shook his helm. “I should have, but…I wanted to fit in so _badly_. I wasn’t spoiled for choice when it came to friends. Plus, if I had a colossal afthole like Starscream on my side, I’d never have to worry about bullies.”

“I can’t see Starscream standing up to any bullies.”

“Oh, he didn’t, because he was _the_ bully. Starscream’s vindictiveness and creativity for tormenting his peers was on a whole different level. _Professors_ were intimidated by him. I think they stuck Starscream on Luna-1 with the title of ‘elite energon seeker’ just to protect everyone else.”

Given how Starscream was, that made too much sense. “So, did you crash?”

“I didn’t _crash_. I fell with style and elegance.” Knockout insisted with his helm held high.

“Sounds like the most beautiful way to crash.” Bumblebee chortled.

“I _did_ take out a few shacks while I was bouncing around the cave walls like a rubber ball, but that was completely incidental.” Knockout said, “Everyone was surprised that I was still alive, but I needed a _lot_ of welds. I think Thundercracker twisted Starscream’s arm to get me to a back-alley riveter.”

“You _think_? How could you not _know_?”

“I was _concussed_!” Knockout laughed, “My last clear memory was doing the Slingshot, plummeting through some homeless guy’s shack, and waking up to find Thundercracker and Skywarp _Weekend at Botnie’s_ -ing my frame around campus so none of the professors would realize what happened.”

Autobot, Decepticon, or neutral, mechlets were magnets for trouble. Bumblebee had a mountain of stories but Knockout and him would be here for days if they sat around exchanging them.

“Wait, you said you flew down the Mouth.” Bumblebee said, “Does that mean…what I think…?”

Knockout stared at him.

“I just…don’t want to… _assume_ anything,” Bumblebee said, carefully.

Knockout’s faceplate wrinkled but he sighed.

“I’m not fond of Vos,” Knockout admitted, “for…a _lot_ of reasons. Being here reminds me of the mech I was forced to be before I became myself.”

“…oh.”

“Yes.” Knockout mumbled, “‘ _Oh’_ , is right.”

“I…” 

Being a scout always meant you had to see every angle and think on your pedes. It was always better to cut and run rather than face capture and torture. In an ideal world, a scout was prepared for every eventuality.

When it came to _this_ situation though…Bumblebee was not. Not even slightly. Yes, he had _heard_ about mechs who changed frametype and designation, but that was in the present. Before the War, the High Council insisted function and caste were unchangeable destinies and outliers were unheard of. It was the kind of thing you talked about in whispers with trusted friends who wouldn’t report you to the Enforcers for reeducation. 

“Is…that why you joined up? With the Decepticons, I mean?” Bumblebee asked and at the same time thought, _Am I even allowed to ask this?_

Knockout leaned against a tall slab of metal jutting out the ground. 

“Partly.” Knockout said, “I never liked the caste system but Starscream and his trine joining Megatron convinced me. Starscream is a lot of things: selfish, vain, stupid about relationships, a fashion disaster but he cares— _cared_ —about Skywarp and Thundercracker. No matter how much they bickered or fought, I knew Starscream wouldn’t purpose lead them to destruction…” 

Knockout stared into the distance. The suns were lowering in the sky. Bumblebee estimated they had a half-hour until the first sunset.

“After I went through my…process, my mentor disowned me.” Knockout muttered, “I was too young to be legally employed so I did side jobs for the ‘Cons. Starscream oversaw the energon factories on Luna-1 so I was the go-between for him and the other ‘Con hideouts. Everyone _had_ to ignore me or risk not looking ‘Functionist’ enough.” The mech smiled like it pained him to move his faceplate. “Outcasts really do make the best spies.”

“You were a scout,” Bumblebee remembered doing the same tasks, transporting messages under Enforcer optics and later across enemy lines as just another deliverybot.

“Scout. Detailer. Unlicensed medic.” Knockout shrugged, “It beat the alternative of starving on the streets.”

“It’s hard to imagine Starscream caring about…well, _anyone_.” Bumblebee admitted. The yellow mech still couldn’t fathom a time when Megatron had been a poet who only wanted caste equality, rather than an irredeemable monster who turned coward when his sharp teeth bit off more than he could chew. Compared to that, Starscream was a simpering coward who was occasionally brilliant.

“I’m not saying Screamer wasn’t selfish and rude. _That_ never changed.” Knockout scoffed, “But he…wasn’t the same after what happened to Thundercracker and Skywarp.” His red optics looked down. “The High Council didn’t even leave enough to put in a casket. Just a bunch of…of _pieces_ the sharkticons didn’t bother with.”

Bumblebee was still at Tyger Pax waiting to be assigned a mentor when the High Council began purging anti-Functionist protestors and anyone else they deemed a threat. When Bumblebee arrived at Protihex, Megatron was an infamous terrorist and the High Council had stepped up the punishment. Imprisonment was off the table for traitors and they had gone through the effort of resurrected the most brutal methods of death and torture the Age of Wrath had to offer.

“I was glad when Megatron imploded those glitches.” Knockout said, “I only wish Tyrest had been there to get collapsed into a singularity too.”

“Some might say that act of overkill made the war spiral out of control.”

Knockout glared at Bumblebee with sharp, clenched dentae. “Read about what the High Council did to mecha in their detention banks. _Then_ come back here and tell me to feel _bad_ that Megatron slagged them.” The red mech folded his arms. “Megatron slagging them was the only right thing the ‘Cons ever did.”

Not that Bumblebee disagreed, but that attitude didn’t set a bad precedent. “I _really_ hope you don’t say that at your trial.” He sighed.

Just as quickly as Bumblebee said it, the irritation disappeared from Knockout’s face. He flashed Bumblebee a big smile. “You’re worried more about the trial than I am, Beebs.”

“Ohhhh _no_.” Bumblebee moved closer to Knockout, “If you’re calling me a gross nickname like ‘Beebs’, I’m calling you something equally gross like…’Knocks’.”

Knockout stuck out his glossa. “ _I’m_ not the one who picked the designation that’s the easiest to make nicknames from.”

“Oh, like yours _isn’t_ , Mr. Perfect?”

Knockout moved closer to Bumblebee; close enough that the other mech could hear the low purr of his engines. “And don’t you forget it, buzzboy.”

The second (or maybe third?) sun was still moving down, turning the sky orange-red. Knockout’s optics were more vivid with the change, reflecting the grey shade of his new, badly scuffed pauldrons. It would be a shame if becoming an Autobot meant the red mech would have to change his optics to blue. Not that it would be _ugly_ on Knockout, but it wouldn’t have the same effect.

Then Knockout shoved him to the ground. An arc of green ooze sprayed across the sky. Bumblebee only had a few seconds to roll over, barely avoiding the splatter. The metal ground bubbled and sizzled as the ooze ate through it like a ravenous scraplet.

“Acid?” Bumblebee’s proximity alarm was screaming but there was nothing around him.

A rock soared through the air, striking the space between two broken statues. The gap warped and the air rippled like the surface of a still lake as stones skipped across it.

“Cloaker!” Knockout called. The red mech lobbed another rock and struck the creature a second time. 

Bumblebee had never been gladder for his paranoia and not holstering both guns. He fired three shots at the rippling shape. Energon burst out of its hide in sickly, dull bull and the cloak fell off. Underneath was a small insecticon. The creature gave a single, angry hiss before keeling over. Liquid energon pooled under it, pouring out of its wounds. 

Bumblebee shot its head two more times, but the creature didn’t twitch.

“Dead already?” Bumblebee muttered.

The insecticon was different from the ones they had seen at Vector Sigma and encountered on Earth. Its dermal plating was purple and yellow, and it was mostly soft bulk with a small head. It made Bumblebee think of an Earth deer tick bloated with warm blood. As energon oozed out the creature, its bulk began deflating like Cybertron’s ugliest balloon.

“The ones on Earth were _way_ harder to squash.” Bumblebee said. 

“That’s because it’s not from Earth.” Knockout ran over and grabbed Bumblebee’s servo, tugging him away from the creature. “We need to go. _Now_.”

“What’s wrong?” Bumblebee remained where he was, studying the foreign insecticon. “It’s full of processed energon. We should take it back to the ship--”

“That’s a _resource drone_ , idiot!” Knockout was still determined to move Bumblebee and wasn’t making much progress. “When it dies, it sends out a pheromone to call the _soldiers_!”

Humming roared through the air and proximity alarms lit up Bumblebee’s HUD. Five black shadows moved through the ruins, knocking aside any debris in their path. These insecticons looked closer to what Bumblebee had expected—all teeth and claws but in yellow and purple. And there were more in the distance. At least twenty more.

“Let’s run.” Bumblebee decided.

“Let’s.” Knockout said. 

It was to their advantage that these insecticons couldn’t fly but they moved as quickly. The creatures spat acid, striking Bumblebee’s door wings, the ground, and rubble. Bumblebee fired multiple shots, but it barely made a dent on the soldier’s armored hides. It seemed the creatures were only vulnerable around their optics or underbelly, which was hard to hit when you were on the run.

“I’m getting low on ammo!” Bumblebee stumbled over a rock, nearly sliding down a hillock and toward the giant pit. On the other side of the pit, more insecticons were approaching.

Knockout looked at the pit, “Then we jump.”

Bumblebee wouldn’t even dignify that stupid suggestion with a look at the giant hole of death. “Despite my designation, Knockout, _I can’t fly!_ ”

“Just do as say and we might live.” Knockout smirked, “Or at least, _I’ll_ live.”

“Oh joy— _hey_!” It was then Knockout climbed onto Bumblebee’s back. Bumblebee was lucky that Knockout was smaller than him or he would have tipped over immediately. “Give a mech a little warning before you climb on him!”

“Giddyup!” Knockout said, “Make those struts work!”

Bumblebee grunted but had little choice in the matter. It was either jump or be melted by insecticons. Worst case scenario, he’d have to let Ratchet lecture and repair Knockout and him.

With Knockout clinging to his shoulder pauldrons, Bumblebee charged toward the Mouth of Mortilus and leaped into the darkness.


	14. Knockout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussion of implied suicide, robo-corpses

> **The Mouth of Mortilus is highly recommended by the Cybertronian War Academy as the perfect place for a third date. Yeah, your date might die but the fear of death might also get you some aft so it's worth the risk.**

Knockout’s return to Vos was far less glamorous than he initially planned and only _partly_ because he was falling down the Mouth of Mortilus, riding an Autobot like a crude surfboard.

Since leaving the ‘Cons, his life had certainly taken a turn for the weirder.

Knockout’s basic programming had already activated. From the moment his frame detected that Knockout was no longer on the ground, his Seeker protocols engaged. The only reason Knockout hadn’t deleted the program was that it was still the best when it came to calculating wind resistance and speed.

An alert popped up on his HUD: **[Approaching gravitational distortion. Engage thrusters Y/N?]**

Knockout rolled his optics. Well, no one ever said basic programming had to be intelligent.

“Now, transform!” Knockout ordered.

The sound of Bumblebee’s t-cog engaging echoed off the cavern walls. The yellow mech’s limbs and plating sprung out and then folded in, displacing mass as pieces shifted. The yellow car plummeted faster toward the unseen distortion. Knockout dug his talons into the car roof so he wouldn’t be thrown off. He’d have to apologize to Bumblebee about the gouges ( _if_ they survived).

Hitting the distortion was a violent slap to Knockout’s sensors. Bumblebee screamed through his stereo. The yellow alt-mode curved upward, gravity working to spit back out the force that had slammed into it. They were traveling up again—moving through the throat of the Mouth. Not that it was a smooth ride. Even with the mass displacement of transformation, Bumblebee still didn’t weigh enough for a complete loop. Bumblebee spun, striking the wall, and nearly throwing off Knockout from the spin’s momentum.

Finally, they smashed into a metal shack that was still clinging to the wall after all these years. Aluminum and zinc walls tore apart as Bumblebee’s alt-mode went into a spin. Knockout grit his dentae as the car crashed through another ramshackle wall, entering a tunnel. Once they were in the tunnel, Knockout released his talons. He let his base programming take over, forcing his body into the ‘crash’ position so he would stop as safe and quickly as possible. He tumbled for a few feet and then struck the tunnel wall. The sudden stop jarred his processor, but it was better than a broken part. 

Bumblebee, however, was still spinning; his alt-mode completely seized by momentum. He bounced against the narrow tunnel walls like a wayward bumper car.

“Bumblebee, change back!” Knockout yelled. The red mech slowly got to his pedes as his processor worked to stabilize his gyroscope. 

Bumblebee shifted back to root mode just in time to smack into a wall. The yellow mech grunted, attempted to stand, but then slumped back onto the ground. Knockout slowly approached him, walking around the scattered bits of the shack and tunnel wall.

“Easy there, buzz.” Knockout said, “The Slingshot’s hard on a grounder’s tanks--”

Bumblebee gave a static-filled warble and then turned his helm. The mech heaved repeatedly but nothing came up. Knockout sighed and sat next to the yellow mech, running claws down Bumblebee’s back.

“Just like old times.” Knockout chuckled.

* * *

Bumblebee didn’t purge his midday ration of energon, but it was a half-hour wait until his gyroscope reset and his vertigo eased. While the yellow mech was recovering, Knockout checked his sensors. The proximity alerts had ended and his audials weren’t picking up anything; not even vermin since mechanimals avoided the Mouth’s gravitational distortion like the rust plague.

“ _Primus_.” Bumblebee coughed, “Even if I was forged with wings, I can’t imagine _ever_ doing that.”

“Starscream did it hundreds of times, but he was _always_ the wild one.” Knockout chuckled. He sent a comm at the _Nemesis_ , **[KO to base. BB and I are stuck in Vos. A little help, please? :3c ]**

A second later, Knockout received a message:

**[COMM ERROR 503]**

**[I’m sorry but the NEMESIS SERVER is currently unable to service your request due to (1) maintenance downtime, (2) capacity problems, and/or (3) Starscream- and/or Shockwave-related acts of science and/or sabotage.]**

**[Here are some suggestions:**

  * **Resend your message**
  * **Restart your messaging application**
  * **Contact Soundwave for tech support**
    * **NOTE: Contacting Soundwave for tech support may prove futile and/or fatal**



**[Please have a nice day. All hail Megatron!]**

“Nice to see that Soundwave’s old error messages are still on the server.” Knockout grunted. He looked at Bumblebee, “The server’s overloaded. I can’t get a message out.”

“Oh, for frag’s sake!” Bumblebee growled, “We’re stranded, and Smokescreen’s overloaded the damn server downloading 4K porn again!”

Knockout smirked. “And you know this because…?”

“You _don’t_ want to know.” Bumblebee’s optics looked like they would tell a haunting tale if they had the time, “I assume you know a grounder-friendly way out of here?”

Knockout had been hoping to wait on a rescue—and it wasn’t _just_ because his tank was on the empty side, his pedes were hurting from running, and he was starting to feel a little woozy. Maybe going down the hole with the gravitational distortion affected him but he wasn’t going to admit that. Just because he was compiling didn’t mean he was a fragile little crystal-flower.

“Fine, let’s see…” Knockout said. As long as he kept his processor occupied, he could ignore the nausea.

He switched on his headlights and studied the tunnel walls. Luckily, the squatters hadn’t messed with the wall decals. Most of the paint had either flaked away or suffered from scraplet damage but Knockout could still make out the glyphs.

“This is part of Expressway 22-G,” Knockout said, “so that means there’s a fork ahead that should take us to the mainline of Smuggler’s Run.” Knockout grinned at Bumblebee as he began trotting down the tunnel, “You’re in luck, Beebs; you get an exclusive tour of Vos’s second most important industry.”

“I already know Smuggler’s Run.” Bumblebee said. He followed behind, albeit hobbled by his fading nausea. “All the black markets in Protihex were connected to it. It was like Earth McDonalds but for contraband.” 

“Yes, but did you know that when the High Council placed a bounty on Megatron’s helm, he hid in these very tunnels? Skywarp personally smuggled Shockwave, Soundwave, and him down here.”

“Now that I _didn’t_ know.” Bumblebee said, “ _Everyone_ was looking for Megatron then. Optimus, uh, _Orion_ was frazzled to all pit about the bounty. He’d been trying to get the High Council to stop being aft-holes for _once_ and they doubled down. I’d go into his habsuite and he’d be lying there, staring at the ceiling. I had to crash with Jazz and Prowl for a bit.”

Knockout had never met Jazz or Prowl, but he had heard plenty about them. Starscream described Prowl as “the most devious Autobot to ever forged” and Jazz was simply “annoying”. Given it was Starscream saying that it could have meant anything.

They walked ahead, passing by and through other thrown together shelters and what could have been a marketplace.

“I’d never seen an insecticon that could cloak itself.” Bumblebee said.

“You have Shockwave to thank for that.” Knockout snorted.

“Figures,” Bumblebee said, “but why not use these insecticons as the main force rather than the ones we faced on Earth? Cloaking tech would’ve given the ‘Cons an edge.”

“Energy insufficient and processor damaging.” Knockout said, “Shockwave designed this batch insecticons for the gladiator pits and later energon detection. Even in short bursts, they were unmanageable. A regular insecticon can at least be handled like a turbofox. Shockwave’s foragers were too feral for even basic commands. The only good that came of Shockwave’s experiments was the basis for his Vehicon spark-cloning program.”

Bumblebee shuddered. For some reason, the Autobots were incredibly squeamish about the origins of the Vehicons.

“But how did the things get from Shockwave’s lab to out here?”

Knockout shrugged. “Shockwave has more hidey holes than a slagbeetle. Odds are one of the bombings knocked something loose in an abandoned lab and the things got out. I’d thought that when the core got jettisoned, the things would have died out with the rest of the wildlife. They must have survived on scraplets, cannibalism…oh, and probably the other insecticons in stasis. Huh. That explains a lot.”

“Explains what?”

“It’s just that Megatron made sure to load up the old city centers with stasis-locked insecticons so that he’d have spies in case Autobots came back.” Knockout said, “I would’ve thought there would be tons of insecticons bugging— _heh_ —the _Nemesis_ once we relit the Well. Instead, there were more insecticons on Earth. Shockwave’s insecticons were always more vicious and they could combine, which gives them an advantage.”

Bumblebee frowned. “So, while Cybertron was dead, Shockwave’s insecticons were having a buffet.”

“Not bad eating for a bunch of acid-drooling rustbuckets.” Knockout chuckled.

Bumblebee stopped suddenly, holding out his arm. Knockout looked ahead to see what was troubling the yellow mech. The tunnel was cluttered with vehicles—no, not just standard Cybertronian vehicles but aerial and grounder alt-modes. The husks were mostly depigmented but they were in better shape than the surface husks. Scraplets hadn’t even chewed through most of the plating.

Bumblebee’s optics were shrunken. He was frozen to the spot, staring at the mass of husks.

“Uh, ‘Bee?” Knockout asked. When the yellow mech didn’t answer, he gently tapped the arm in front of him. “You in there?”

“Huh—wha--?” Bumblebee jolted, looking like he would jump right out of his plating. He inhaled in brief pants, “I just…uh…” He swallowed, “We should…go another way.”

“Why? You were taking me to a grave anyway.” Knockout walked past the Autobot.

Bumblebee didn’t answer. He was looking at the wall, the ground, or anywhere but the dead frames. Knockout wasn’t the greatest medic, but he recognized the behavior of a bot who was experiencing a post-traumatic flashback.

“This is…different.” Bumblebee murmured.

“Ohhh, I see now.” Knockout let his engine give a low purr. “This grave was just an excuse to get me all alone. Wanted to interface where your pals couldn’t see?”

Bumblebee sputtered and his optics dilated. “No! This was Ratchet’s idea!”

“Ratchet wanted to frag me? _Do_ tell.” Knockout chuckled, “I guess that’s what happens when you’re the most _desirable_ mech on the ship.”

“No! He—ugh, let’s just _go_!” Bumblebee grunted. He cautiously stepped around the husks, moving closer to Knockout. “The sooner we get back to the _Nemesis_ , the better.”

“True, but… _hm._ ” Knockout took a long look at the closest husk; a grounder alt-mode. Judging by the wear and tear of the plates, he estimated they were only a few centuries old at the most. Nothing like the millennia-old gravesite Bumblebee was taking him to.

“Hm? ‘Hm’ what?” Bumblebee muttered in a voice that was begging, _Please don’t be gruesome._

Knockout had a wry smile. “Don’t know if you have a tank for it, Autobot--”

“Just get it over with.” Bumblebee said, but the mech still looked uneasy.

“You ask for it.” Knockout ran a talon along the husk’s surface. The coating of metallic dust wasn’t caked on like in city ruins. Underneath the dust was a roadmap of tiny gouges and warps in the plating. “See these marks? That’s form exhaustion. This mech must have kept changing until his t-cog burnt out, followed by the fuel pump, systems shutdown--”

Bumblebee’s optics shuttered.

“You mean these mechs… _killed_ themselves?”

Knockout shrugged. “Just a guess. It could have been due to illness. I won’t know without an autopsy.”

“I…” Bumblebee looked at the husk and his breathing quickened. His frame shook and Knockout was afraid the mech was on the verge of a panic attack. Then Bumblebee steadied himself and eased his breathing. “The Autobots and Decepticons left Cybertron in a hurry, but I was always certain…” He shook his helm. “There’s no feasible way to completely evacuate a planet. _Someone_ is going to be left behind: the sick, the elderly, the neutrals…”

Knockout had to admit that Bulkhead was right about Bumblebee’s attitude. Despite having a sunny paint job and being the youngest Autobot, the mech had serious ball bearings. Knockout had expected an Autobot to keel over at the first hint of desperation and suicide; for tears to pour out their optics in sympathy. Instead, Bumblebee accepted what had transpired.

Then again, it was hard to be a helm-in-the-clouds Pollytechnicanna in the face of a million-year war.

“What happened here was a tragedy,” Bumblebee continued, “when we get back to the _Nemesis_ , I’ll make a note that we need to clear out these husks and give them a proper burial once we’ve identified them.”

“Why?” Knockout began scanning the husks. If they were going to stand here, he was going to at least try acquiring an alt-mode.

“What do you mean?” Bumblebee asked.

“Uh, because they’re dead?” Knockout grumbled as he scanned yet another clunker. He sighed. There were over a hundred husks in this tunnel and not _one_ of them had an alt-mode with decent speed!

Bumblebee stared at him. “…Primus, you’re not kidding, are you? You really don’t understand why this is…” The yellow mech followed Knockout further down the tunnel, “Wait, do ‘Cons not honor their dead?”

“Honor the dead?” Knockout had to sound out the strange combination of words as if he was stumbling over a weird human term. “Why would you honor them? They’re _dead_. They have nothing to contribute and nothing to say.” He scanned two more husks, only to uncover more heavy-duty hauler alt-modes. “Ugh, all these damn clunkers! _Honestly_! Did any of these smuggler peasants have a _lick_ of a fashion sense?”

“You can’t _actually_ believe that!” Bumblebee said, “We have proof that sparks exist beyond death, and we can communicate with the dead!”

“That’s just superstitious nonsense.” Knockout said, rolling his optics, “Next you’ll tell me the Matrix of Leadership is full of the spirits of dead Primes and they commune in harmony to aid Optimus.”

“Yes! Exactly!”

“Oh, _sure_.” Knockout chortled, “Just like I’m _sure_ Primus hangs out in bars all day and drinks cocktails. Honestly, ‘Bee.” He smirked, “Not even ‘Cons are dumb enough to swallow their own propaganda.”

Bumblebee folded his arms. “Oh, really? Then _you_ explain the Matrix.”

“The Matrix is nothing but a powerful quantum-processing computer containing the archived knowledge and memories of the Primes. There’s nothing mystical or even especially interesting about it. Given the right technology and time, you could easily replicate it.”

Knockout was losing spark regarding his search for a quality alt-mode until he spied a curvy shape.

“Oooh! Now _this_ looks promising.” Knockout squealed. He walked to the furthest part of the tunnel and circled the husk. The alt-mode had more flair to it: low to the ground, curved front and back, well-maintained wheels. Knockout would bet his energon ration that this husk wasn’t a smuggler but some smuggler’s pricey shareware.

“A bit on the small side though. Might be uncomfortable displacing all this mass...” Knockout sighed.

“I seriously can’t believe I’m _just_ learning this.” Bumblebee muttered, “Jazz and Prowl had tons of ‘Con files and they _never_ mentioned this.”

“As if a prisoner would shoot the breeze about their beliefs with the enemy, _especially_ if they react like you did.” Knockout debated the merit of a smaller alt-mode. Smaller alt-modes were faster, but the mass displacement would be complicated by his compiling and it would work his t-cog harder. 

“Is that why you don’t talk about the sire?” Bumblebee asked.

The words were a laserbolt to the helm.

Knockout looked at Bumblebee and the yellow mech looked back at him. Knockout opened his mouth, but the words were strangled in his intake tubing. A sharp, gnawing pain stirred in his lower tank. He quickly calculated the last time he ingested energon and if there was anything in his tanks to even purge this time.

“Hey. Easy. Breathe.” Bumblebee moved in close.

“I’m _fine_!” Knockout snapped but couldn’t keep the strain out of his voice. He exhaled sharply and leaned against the tunnel wall. Talons scraped along the metal as he rode another wave of pain.

“It’s okay. I’m right here…” Bumblebee said. His voice was obnoxiously soft as if he was talking to a fragile sparkling. Or a _human_.

“I said I’m fine! I just… _hurgh_ …” The dizziness returned with a vengeance and if Knockout were in the right frame of mind, he would point out the irony of him suffering the most discomfort long after dealing with a gravitational anomaly.

Despite Knockout’s wishes, Bumblebee helped him to the ground. Knockout looked at the dust-covered ground and tried not to think about all the deaths or fragging that might have occurred in this exact location, especially so close to the remains of a possible pleasurebot.

“You had a rough landing earlier,” Bumblebee said, “I, uh, don’t know anything about protoforms or carrying but I could check-”

“Listen, Bee.” Knockout said and although he was nauseous and aching, he forced a smile, “if you want to look at my valve so badly, you can come up with a better excuse than _that._ ”

“I’m being serious.” Bumblebee said.

“So am I.” Knockout’s HUD was popping up with errors again, mentioning low tank and stabilizer errors among the usual annoyances. “It’s not my gestational forge. It’s just my tank being an irritating little piece of slag.”

Bumblebee made a quiet “hm” and then sat next to him. “You could have told me you weren’t feeling well from earlier.”

“I was fine,” Knockout insisted, “I was just looking around to see where your stupid aft stranded us.”

“You knew taking off for no reason would be suspicious, but you did it anyway. Which means either you were sick and didn’t want me to know or you saw something you didn’t want me to see.” Bumblebee narrowed his optics, “Which conclusion would you prefer I come to, Knockout?”

Oh, great. Knockout now had a choice between Ratchet and Bumblebee’s tag-team nosiness or time in the brig with the malcontent Vehicons. He decided to pick the lesser of two evils. 

“I may have been feeling a little…under the weather earlier. Of sorts. For a bit.” Knockout said. To be accurate, his pain receptors and system alerted him to an immediate purge but wouldn’t tell him which end. Suddenly running off was a risk he’d rather take than public embarrassment. “I didn’t pack my meds, so I just dealt with it. _It’s_ _fine_.”

“Why didn’t you pack meds?” Bumblebee demanded. Knockout groaned but Bumblebee didn’t let up with the nagging, “Knockout, you have to be responsible! You’re a carrier now and it’s not just your life--”

“You think I don’t _know_ that?” Knockout snapped, “I can’t walk two steps without you, Ratchet, or the little glitch _reminding_ me!” 

“Maybe we wouldn’t need to remind you if you stopped acting like such a mechling! There’s a _huge_ difference between you and all those other carriers!”

“Like what? Like the sire not being around?”

“Yes, Knockout! _You’re alone!_ ”

Bumblebee’s words echoed through the abandoned tunnel. An electric surge moved through Knockout, jostling his fuel pump.

Alone.

The word was an icepick to the optic. The Decepticons were fractured, so who did Knockout have left? Starscream may as well be dead. Soundwave, the creepy glitch, was gone. Shockwave was dead or vanished. Not that he was close to any of them. 

And his—

No.

Breakdown and him were never lovers. They were partners because everyone else was untrustworthy, clangpals when they were bored, and drinking buddies when no one else was available. Breakdown was his assistant when he wanted to avoid the more hazardous tasks and Knockout let him because he was (relatively) competent. They never planned for a future together because what would be the point? In the face of a million-year interplanetary battle, the idea of planning was laughable. You may as well build a palace out of sand. 

But then Breakdown was gone.

Not that it mattered. The dead are dead.

But still—

“Oh. Oh, Primus. Slag. Sorry. I didn’t mean to--Slag. _Slag_.” Bumblebee was stumbling over his words. The mech’s vocalizer fritzed out around his consonants, peppering his murmurs with static.

“I…” Knockout’s mouth felt dried out and claggy, like he’d been sipping silica gel tea. Tears ran from his optic and his processor was too stuttered to realize his faceplate was completely wet.

Why was he crying now? Where were the tears when he learned Breakdown died? Where was his sorrow then? He had only been consumed by rage, revenge, and then a vast emptiness.

“I didn’t mean it!” Bumblebee grasped his shoulder pauldrons, “I _didn’t_! Knockout, you’re _not_ alone! You”—Another pop and hiss in his vocalizer. The yellow mech coughed—“You have _us_. You’re an _Autobot_. You’re _family_ and I _bwoop_ —aw, slag!”

Bumblebee shut his mouth and opened it again. Instead of words, he let out a staccato of beeps and blips that, even with a knowledge of primitive Cybertronian, made little sense. The yellow mech grumbled and covered his faceplate. No doubt his optics were dilated from the humiliation of reverting to the childish verbal code.

Knockout chortled. Then he laughed. Bumblebee was still attempting to speak normally, but he was still too flustered to get a word out. The red and black mech sighed and leaned his helm on the Autobot commander’s shoulder pauldron.

“You sound like an idiot.” Knockout said.

Bumblebee coughed and then sighed. He slumped against the wall.

“Okay. Wow.” Bumblebee muttered. His voice was still small, and static filled. “I guess I deserve that.”

“Under most circumstances, I’d say worse but…” Knockout hesitated to admit how right Bumblebee was. Not that he was going to thank him or anything like that. “You’re not _that_ bad. I guess.”

It only then did it occur to Knockout that sitting in an abandoned tunnel was a bad idea. He had found a desirable alt-mode and they were only a mile from the (hopefully still viable) exit. They should be rushing toward the _Nemesis_ to report the presence of insecticons and possible clues to their true location on the planet.

Eventually. Once they stopped being less comfortable.


	15. Arcee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Knockout and Bumblebee are on their (not) date, Arcee deals with the ship's communication problem.

> **Arcee doesn’t get paid enough to deal with these shenanigans. In fact, she doesn’t get paid at all. The Autobots function on a system that’s partly bartering and favor-based, but since it comes with free healthcare and education, no one complains.**

“Something’s not right,” Arcee said.

“You’re being paranoid,” Smokescreen said.

“And you’re being naïve.” the femme countered.

The communications array was blank. No message from Autobot ships. No geostationary drones monitoring space debris. Just static and ancient radio messages from Earth. Even the illegal pirate frequencies Arcee knew of were silent.

“Even when Cybertron was abandoned, there were still scavengers dropping by.” Arcee said, “Before we went to Earth, Cliff and I rooted out slaver pirates more times than I could count.”

“ _Mech_ slavers?” Smokescreen asked, with wide optics. If Arcee didn’t know Smokescreen better, she would have thought the question was a joke. “I always heard that was an organic thing.”

“Scum are scum, Smoke; no matter the species.” Arcee sighed, “Can you check the status of the satellite our communications relay is bouncing off of?” The less she thought about the slavers, the better.

Smokescreen typed on the datapad that Wheeljack had hooked into the console. “Says the relay satellite is on Moonbase Two. And as for the actual satellite…” He tapped more on the pad, only for an error to pop up. “There’s a database error. I can’t get anything specific.”

“Moonbase Two was abandoned during the first outbreak of Rust Plague.” Arcee said, “It wouldn’t be unusual for the satellite to malfunction after all this time.”

Smokescreen grinned. “Sounds like you’re going on a field trip.” 

“If we have a ship to investigate with,” Arcee said.

Wheeljack was the best mech for that job. Arcee left the bridge, stepping into the corridor. The Vehicons that had been milling about took one look at her and scattered like ground-crawlers once a light shined on them. Most of the Vehicons made the transition from Decepticon slave force to Autobot comrades easier than they had initially thought, but they were still skittish around Arcee.

Not that the Vehicons _didn’t_ have a good reason to be afraid. Arcee wasn’t one for denial. She was a soldier and maintained one of the highest kill counts for Autobots; a kill count that included named Decepticons but _especially_ Vehicons. A _lot_ of Vehicons. So many that it became necessary to stop making them part of the official kill count.

So, the fear was understandable. Pit, it was _earned_. It shouldn’t bother Arcee that the Vehicons gave her a wide berth and always emptied the commissary when she showed up. Such treatment wasn’t foreign to Arcee. If anything, it was a return to the past. The past before Arcee was an Autobot or anything at all. When she was just…empty.

But she didn’t have time to focus on that. There was important work to be done.

She located Wheeljack in the hangar, fiddling with his ship. The mech seemed to divide his time between doing the odd jobs around the _Nemesis_ (rename pending) and rebuilding his spaceship. It reminded Arcee of human teenagers who were obsessed with vehicular maintenance.

When she informed Wheeljack of the still existing communication issue, the mech shook his helm. 

“Sorry to add more slag to the pile, but we got another problem,” Wheeljack said.

“I know the quality of the energon isn’t the _greatest_ , but we’ve all had to make sacrifices--” Arcee sighed.

“It’s not the energon. ‘Bee asked me to look into the power supply.” Wheeljack said. He still tinkering with the _Jackhammer’s_ underside, elbow-strut deep in its wires. “ _Nemesis_ ’s fragged to pit from the crash, but our power shouldn’t be _this_ low. It’s like the ol’ girl’s gotta nasty magna-tapeworm rooting through her guts.”

Of course, another problem would spring up because things were running _too_ smoothly. It wasn’t like the Autobots were tasked with rebuilding their society from scratch or something. 

“You seriously can’t figure out what’s going on?” Arcee said, “I thought you were a genius at ships.”

Wheeljack paused in his tinkering. “Basic Cybertronian ships, yeah, but the _Nemesis_ is something else. No telling how old she is or what other ships she may have been cobbled from. Unless I can crawl around every inch of the ship, I got no clue what’s eating our power.”

And there was no way Wheeljack could do that when the lower half of the ship was mostly full of deadly traps. “So, the _Nemesis_ is still grounded,” she sighed, “but what about _your_ ship? All we need to do is make it to Moonbase Two.”

Wheeljack slid out from under the ship to look at the femme. “Moonbase Two? What’s up there?” Once Arcee explained the situation, the mech looked at his starship. It was still battered but in better shape than it had been after Starscream shot it down. “My old bird isn’t space-worthy yet. She can make short trips, but she might leave pieces on the ground during takeoff.”

“So, you’ve been in here the whole time just working on _one_ ship?”

Wheeljack smirked. “Now I didn’t say _that_ …”

The mech led her to the other side of the hangar, where most of the equipment had been set aside. Wheeljack showed her to a huge tarp covering a bulky object and pulled it away. Underneath it was a pod-shaped ship, similar to the _Jackhammer’s_ cockpit but with rear wings and small guns on the side. Given the size and wings, it was more for speed than combat.

“Doc kept nagging me to do something in my downtime, so this is my new project.” Wheeljack said, “Cobbled her together from parts we scavenged from Dreadwing’s ship, the old _Jackhammer_ , and the _Iron_ _Will_.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m thinking of calling her…the _Sky Claw_.”

“The _Sky Claw_.” Arcee looked at the grabbing claw welded to the ship’s front. “Let me guess: it grabs things?”

“With extreme prejudice.” Wheeljack said, grinning, “It’s small and not space-worthy yet, but it’s good for quick runs. If we ever run into trouble on the other side of the planet, we can use this baby to scout it out.”

“Always good to have more ships.” Arcee said, “How long to make it space-worthy?”

“A few days, pending I can scavenge something good.” Wheeljack smiled fondly at his latest invention, “I’ll take it on a tour of the place. Maybe get some idea of what’s going on.”

“Just don’t go _too_ far. We’re not sure about potential hazards.”

Wheeljack smirked. “Aw, c’mon. We all know my headstrong nature and lone-wolf attitude drives everyone wild. Even stone-cold turbofoxes with cute, pointy, audials.”

“Keep it behind your panel, ‘Jackie.” Arcee said but she smiled back.

“Hey, the panel’s not the _only_ fun place on a bot’s body,” Wheeljack purred, “and overzealous ‘Cons aren’t the only thing Wreckers like to wreak havoc on.”

Arcee rolled her optics. “I’ve heard. There’s a _reason_ Ultra Magnus had to be put in charge of you bunch.”

Wheeljack held up his servos and wore a look of injury. “Hey! You’re violating the policy of ‘what happens in Gygax, stays in Gygax’,”

The hangar entry opened with a loud _bang._ Arcee and Wheeljack immediately withdrew their guns, aiming at the large door. Two cars sped inside and were caked in so much dust and mud that Arcee had trouble discerning their colors. They drove into the center of the hangar and shifted to root mode.

Knockout and Bumblebee. Covered in mud, rust, pitted and scarred like they’d gone through the trenches…and _laughing_ about it. They didn’t even notice there were guns trained on them.

“Human Grandmas drive faster than you!” Knockout laughed.

“I gave you a head start!” Bumblebee insisted.

“Like pit you did!” Knockout said.

“What in the name of Solus happened to you two?” Arcee asked.

The two mechs looked at her as if they had forgotten the rest of the world. It was a look of petro-rabbits realizing there were predators about.

“Looks like your little date got rough and wild.” Wheeljack said and holstered his guns, “I wouldn’t advise that kind of play. You wouldn’t _believe_ the kinda infections you get from ‘facing in weird places.”

“You _would_ know that.” Knockout scoffed, cocking his hips in a sassy gesture.

“It wasn’t a _date_!” Bumblebee insisted, “We ran into insecticons!” 

“Did you say…insecticons?” A chill ran down Arcee’s spine. Her processor conjured up the image of spindly legs and sharp teeth. Of segmented purple eyes shining in the darkness and Tailgate’s final scream.

“So?” Wheeljack asked, “We already know about the ‘Con’s little traps.”

“These were different.” Bumblebee said. Then the mech looked at Arcee’s faceplate. “Arcee? You alright? Oh Primus. _Arcee_.” The yellow mech’s optics turned sympathetic and he said, quietly, “It wasn’t _her_ insecticons.”

Arcee finally exhaled the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She wasn’t the only one, as Knockout had also gone still.

“That glitch is _dead_.” Knockout growled. His optics were narrowed in barely sustained rage, “These were Shockwave’s experiments. They were crawling all over Vos. Well, what’s _left_ of Vos.”

“I’ll arrange patrols,” Arcee said. At least she ‘d have something to shoot at when she was bored. “In the meantime, you two should clean up. We can’t have you making the _Nemesis_ even more of a mess.”

“That’s the sanest thing I’ve heard all day.” Knockout said and happily strutted out the hangar.

“Same. My joints are aching.” Bumblebee said and followed the red mech.

Before Bumblebee left the hangar, Arcee sent a comm: **[try not 2 ‘canoodle’ in the washracks either]**

Rather than reply with a comm, the yellow mech chose a very human way of responding with his servo before exiting the hangar.

“Where’d he learn _that_ gesture?” Wheeljack snickered.

“Miko, obviously.” Arcee chuckled.

* * *

Just to be safe, Arcee avoided the washracks. She spent the remainder of her shift attending to the usual chores: discussing remapping Cybertron with Smokescreen, looking over Bulkhead’s architectural blueprints, reading Ratchet’s medical reports and Knockout’s archiving of Decepticon records, and going over shift management with the only two Vehicons who weren’t terrified of her. Then it was a quick refuel in her habsuite before heading to Optimus for her end-of-shift report.

Optimus had commandeered one of the many hidden energon storage rooms as his office. When Arcee entered the office, Optimus sat behind a desk taken from the laboratory and was carefully typing on an ancient-looking datapad. Going by how delicately he was holding it, the former Prime seemed to be afraid of breaking the screen. 

“Having some trouble with the touch screen, Big O?” Arcee asked.

Optimus sighed and put down the datapad next to a stack on the desk. The older mech flexed his wrists, exercising the cables. “If I knew I was going to return to writing at this capacity without a proper console, I would have reinstalled my archivist modifications.”

Arcee fought not to shudder. She always found archivist modifications to be creepy; especially the one where your fingers expand into even smaller fingers for faster typing. Just…. _ugh_.

“The Earth paperwork pile up that much?” Arcee asked.

“No, I took care of that earlier. This is just some writing to occupy my processor.” Optimus looked through the pile and picked up a different pad, pushing it toward Arcee. “In the meanwhile, I managed to comb through the first section of the Galactic Council’s…edicts.”

Arcee picked up the pad. The screen was crowded with Cybertronian glyphs as if the Galactic Council were setting a record for text-based clutter. 

“It’s not good is it?” Arcee asked.

“It is not…great.” Optimus said.

The older mech sat back in his chair. There was a far off look in Optimus’s optic. A look Arcee only saw when the mech was weighing the future impact of his words. For a human, such a flicker of emotion would be too quick to notice in the nanoseconds that took place. For a Cybertronian processor, it felt like minutes.

“Let me make this clear, Arcee.” Optimus said, “There are many things Megatron and I disagree on. We have _always_ agreed that the Galactic Council benefits no one. They are the embodiment of the worst breed of malice: disinterest in all things that do not affect their bottom line. They stood by while other species have been enslaved, colonized, or warred upon and only took up arms when our war threatened their trade. Perhaps this is the paranoia of an old soldier, but those who are complacent toward the exploitation of others are the most dangerous sort of people.”

“Even more dangerous than the Decepticons?”

“Yes,” Optimus said, “because it is that attitude that motivated the Functionists on the High Council and it is the inability to see beyond oneself that fueled the Decepticon’s extremist views and destroyed our home.”

Arcee had never heard Optimus speak in such an honest tone. This was different from when Optimus was a Prime trying to rouse his soldier’s morale or talking down Arcee from a grief-stricken rampage. This sounded more akin to the private conversations Optimus would have with Ratchet or any of the other, older mechs Arcee would accidentally overhear.

“I…never thought of it like that,” Arcee admitted.

“Few rarely do.” Optimus said, “Arcee, going by the look on your faceplate, I can surmise that our communications are still indisposed.”

“Unfortunately. I’m planning with Wheeljack about that.”

As Arcee explained her theory regarding the satellite and getting to Moonbase Two, Optimus’s expression became more guarded.

“If we still cannot reach our fellow Autobots, then I am left with a difficult choice.” Optimus said, “In times like this, I would have the consul of my elite soldiers: Ironhide, Perceptor, Elita-One, Ratchet, Jazz…and…others.” The mech lingered before continuing, “I worry that my long history of dealing with the Galactic Council’s bureaucracy will lead me to make uninformed decisions.”

“Optimus…” Arcee’s spark was sputtering and she didn’t know if it was fear or excitement. “My pledge to you from when we first met still stands. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll fulfill it. My life is yours.”

“I know, and I will never forget that,” Optimus said. There was a softness in his optics that emerged for a brief second before the tactician resurfaced, “Arcee, I would like to request that you join my inner consul.”

“M-me? Your…a consul? Uh, councilor? To _you_?” Arcee’s processor had to kick up the speed so she could process the information. “Why me? You made Bumblebee a commander. He should be here.”

“Bumblebee still has a lot to learn about being in command.” Optimus said, “You are far more levelheaded than he is. With time and experience, he will join us.”

“This…is an _honor_ , Optimus,” Arcee said, “but I don’t know what I could do. I’m just another soldier.”

“You will be filling in for the role of special operations.” Optimus said, “I require someone who already has experience in stealth and information gathering.”

 _Prowl’s old position,_ Arcee realized and made sure her faceplate was blank. Now was not the time to dredge up soured memories.

“What’s my first assignment?” she asked.

“I need you to break into Darkmount,” Optimus said, “Once inside, seize any objects or information databases. I’m certain the place will be guarded, so use the utmost caution. Leave no stone unturned but if you get in over your helm, return to me with the data in tow.”

Arcee was surprised Darkmount was still standing, but the Decepticons had built the place to last. Whatever Optimus was suspicious of, it was concerning enough to send one of his best soldiers.

“I’ll borrow Wheeljack’s new ship. Say I picked up a distress beacon.” Arcee said.

“Good.” Optimus rose from his chair and approached Arcee. He rested his servo on her shoulder-pauldron. “And Arcee: no matter what happens, always know that you mean more to me than an ‘average soldier’. I am and will always be proud of you.”

Arcee couldn’t help but smile.

“Of course…mentor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wheeljack's new ship the Sky Claw is based off the toy (https://tfwiki.net/wiki/Sky_Claw) from the Beast Hunters line cause I think it looks cool.


	16. Bumblebee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Arcee goes on a mission, Bumblebee and Knockout go to horny jail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussing child neglect and abuse after "creche"

> **The washracks currently rank number 3 in Wheeljack’s Frag Places. It got a few points knocked off due to the slip hazard and public location. Number 2 is Starship Cockpit While Going Faster Than Light. Number 1 is Echoey Cave.**

“Okay. So.” Bumblebee was staring at the washrack doors, “I can, uh, wait out here and you can--”

Knockout cackled and shoved Bumblebee through the door. Bumblebee stumbled into the room and then threw a glare at Knockout.

“Rather late in the game to be acting shy when I’ve already seen the goods.” Knockout approached a pole and grabbed a hose.

The _Nemesis_ (rename pending) had a traditional Cybertronian set-up when it came to hygiene. It looked less like the human washroom and closer to an express car wash. The pipes rained down solvent and there were drying racks in a fenced off area.

“I’m not being shy!” Bumblebee huffed and remained in the drying area.

“Still afraid of losing your precious seal, huh?” Knockout snickered. He had already turned on the solvent and was experimenting with the temperature settings.

“I don’t have my seal!”

“Can’t hear you over the solvent.” Knockout sang out over the noise of falling liquid.

Not one to be riled up by a Decepticon, Bumblebee strode from the drying area and into the rising solvent mists. Knockout had already washed off the outer layer of dirt and insecticon splatter, turning the draining solvent red and brown. His optics were shuttered, and he was humming to himself.

Bumblebee moved behind the mech and slid his servos up Knockout’s sides. His fingers stroked the raised ridges of still-healing scratches and began prodding the seams where the metal joined. Knockout exhaled with a shudder as Bumblebee’s servo moved lower, trailing the pelvic armor until he found the seams of the red and black mech’s interface panel.

“Think I forgot about your invitation from earlier?” Bumblebee whispered into the mech’s audial.

“Ah, no but…” Knockout turned his helm, looking at Bumblebee over his shoulder strut. Solvent ran down his faceplate, making him look glossy and new. “You were acting like such an innocent, little Autobot earlier. I wondered if you were… _backpedaling_?”

In response, Bumblebee ran his glossa down the red mech’s neckcables. That elicited a low moan from Knockout, but Bumblebee had only begun. Knockout had been a terror until now, so it was Bumblebee’s turn to terrorize him. Sucking, nibbling, and licking the cables was only step one. Knockout whimpered and his interface paneling slid open so fast Bumblebee felt Knockout jolt from the loud _snap._

“You fragging _tease_.” Knockout gasped. His talons seized Bumblebee’s servos, guiding them to the valve underneath the slowly pressurizing spike.

Bumblebee ran his thumb against the red mech’s anterior node, moving it in slow circles. His fingers brushed against the lips and fine mesh of Knockout’s valve. Knockout moaned louder as Bumblebee worked his fingers inside the valve, ignoring the cramps in his wrist-cables from the repetitive motion because _frag it._ He’d rather have to apply WD-40 to an aching joint from fingering a sexy mech rather than from pumping his piston during another lonely night.

Bumblebee licked his lips, rutting up against Knockout. Their frames slid against each other and Bumblebee wasn’t sure if it was solvent or lubricant. By the time they overloaded, cold solvent was spraying from the pipes. Knockout’s transfluid splashed against the wall and Bumblebee’s sprayed against Knockout’s lower back. The yellow mech watching the liquid mercury-like material run down the crevice of Knockout’s aft, leaving a silver sheen.

Knockout’s legs trembled and he would have fallen if Bumblebee wasn’t holding him up.

“Whoa there!” Bumblebee said. Knockout’s engine was still purring in relief. “Last thing I need is you falling the washrack. Then I’d have to explain to Ratchet what we were doing.”

“Like he won’t know…” Knockout panted, “Gods, I needed that.”

“Does this mean you forgive me for what I said earlier?”

“You thought I was still angry?” Knockout gave him a sly smirk, “If I knew Autobots had a crying fetish, I would’ve done it earlier.”

“Ah, there it is: you being an aft.” Bumblebee sighed. He looked at Knockout’s transfluid splattered back, “Looks like you need another wash. Don’t want your new finish to be marred by jizz.”

Knockout tilted his helm. “Jizz?”

“Oh, it’s a…human term.”

“I know what it _is_!” Knockout laughed, “It’s just funny to hear _you_ say it.” He paused and his optics widened, “…did you say finish?”

Bumblebee smiled. “Can’t have our medic-in-training looking shabby.”

The joy that radiated from Knockout’s faceplate could have lit up Iacon.

* * *

As it turned out, buffing and detailing Knockout was harder than Bumblebee expected for two reasons.

One: The ex-Decepticon was picky about everything, from color to wax brands and which type of polishing buffer to be used.

Two: The moaning.

Bumblebee had expected some noise during the buffing. Some bots were ticklish and couldn’t ignore the unwanted spasms or giggles that escaped during the process. Knockout was…different. _Very_ different. The constant gasping and moaning that came from Knockout made Bumblebee feel more awkward than their washrack-related adventure. It also didn’t help that the only place to do said buffing was in the hangar, which was the only place on the _Nemesis_ with a stable power source.

So, there was Bumblebee on top of Knockout with a buffer, just trying to do his part as an Autobot Commander in keeping improving his soldier’s morale. There was also a small crowd of Vehicons pretending to be on patrol but also pretending they weren’t looking (and likely recording) every gasp and moan and double entendre that came to Knockout’s processor.

“I’m starting to think I should’ve let you do this on your own.” Bumblebee grumbled. He was running the buffer along Knockout’s back while the red mech was lying on his stomach.

“ _Mmm_ , but ‘Bee how would innocent little me reach my— _ohhh sweet Primus yes_ —back strut?” Knockout said between gasps.

“How long are you going to be _this_ revved up?” Bumblebee sighed. He was already fighting his system’s prompts to open his panel so he could go to town on Knockout’s shapely aft in the middle of the damn hangar bay. If this kept on, Bumblebee was considering _welding_ the damn thing shut.

“H-hard not to be when you’re spoiling me like this.” Knockout purred, “Oooh! Yeah! Lower! _Harder_!”

“I go any harder, I’ll do more damage than actual buffing.” Bumblebee said, for what felt like the hundredth time in the last hour.

Knockout’s response was a pleased moan.

“If we knew all it took to get a ‘Con on our side was a good buffing, the war would have ended a lot sooner.” Arcee chortled. The femme strode by, walking around the scene Knockout was making of himself.

“Can’t hear you! Working!” Bumblebee said, refusing to acknowledge the femme or her sass.

“G-going somewhere, Arcee?” Knockout asked.

“Yeah.” Arcee made her way to the far end of the hangar and removed a tarp, revealing a small ship. Bumblebee recalled seeing Wheeljack work on it but figured the ‘big reveal’ would be coming eventually. The femme looked at them, “I won’t be back for a while, so Bumblebee you have run of the base.”

“ _What_?” Bumblebee yelled. He could barely hear her over the sound of buffing.

**[ARCEE: Got a distress beacon. won’t be back 4 a bit and id rather not let the excon know it.]**

Oh. That made sense.

Bumblebee nodded at Arcee. “We’ll make sure not to throw any wild parties while you’re gone.”

“Looks like you’re already having one.” Arcee said and entered the ship.

Bumblebee wanted to protest but Knockout’s panting and gasping overrode that. The yellow mech sighed and returned to his duties.

* * *

The long and awkward task of buffing was only the first step in Knockout’s makeover procedure. Bumblebee still had to fill in the gouges, painted over the scratches, and detail the bare surface. Knockout laid out on the slab and quietly entered recharge. Bumblebee had to nudge the mech awake so he could offer him a cube of medical grade. Knockout scowled but swallowed it.

“These ‘healthy’ minerals are the worst.” Knockout grunted. Now that the excitement of buffing was done, the Vehicons had left them alone. The two sat on a tarp pulled over a berth that was _hopefully_ used by exhausted patrols and not for public fragging.

“Get used to it. You’ll need it during your…carriage.” Bumblebee said, “Speaking of… _that_ …how are you feeling?”

Knockout squinted, hunched his shoulders, but finally conceded. “I’m…light helmed. A little. I guess.” He glared at the half-full cube. “This tastes like barium. Does this have barium in it? I hate barium.”

“If your kid is anything like you, refueling is going to be a _real_ delight.” Bumblebee said. “Hey, what are you going to do?”

“Chuck this slop at one of the Vehicons?” Knockout muttered.

“The _protoform_ , you red dolt.” Bumblebee sighed, “Are you putting it in a creche?”

Knockout looked at Bumblebee like the yellow mech suggested they go hang out with scraplets.

“Like _pit_ I’d do that!” Knockout growled, “I’m not putting my kid in a _creche_! Those places are _ridiculous_! Shoving a bunch of kids into one place, assigning them a number, not giving them a real designation until the AI matches them with a stranger and sends them anywhere on the damn planet.” He shuddered. “Absolute nightmares.”

That didn’t sound any different than a regular creche to Bumblebee, but going by the look on Knockout’s faceplate, he wouldn’t make light of the situation. “Were creches in Vos that awful?”

“Vos creches were pet stores.” Knockout grumbled, “Adults would pick us from a database and bid on us. Like we were…a piece of _furniture_!” He spat out the word, “My mentor didn’t teach me anything. I was just a shiny new toy for him to show off, the _afthole_.”

Knockout’s talons were knotted into fists. Bumblebee had marveled at the length and necessary care of the servos; now he wondered if they were ever used on said mentor.

“…I didn’t get along with my mentor either.” Bumblebee admitted.

“Oh, really?” Knockout snorted, “What genius did the creche-AI saddle _you_ with?”

“I…holy frag, I can’t _remember_ their designation.” Bumblebee rubbed the back of his helm. “I don’t remember what they were supposed to teach me either. Was it medicine? No, it was more specific than that. Something to do with the processor. Anyway, long story short: he was a DDoS addict. Would turn on, plug in, and drop out. He…managed…it at first but it got worse over time. I’d wake up wanting to refuel and he’d be… _out._ ”

“In the streets?”

Bumblebee shrugged. “The streets or in his crashed-out brain. You could take a calcium-pick to his optics and he wouldn’t notice. That was the best situation though. He wasn’t…the _nicest_ mech when he needed a fix. Only thing he taught me was how to sneak around.” He chuckled, “I guess I owe it to him: if he hadn’t been so irresponsible, I would’ve never met Jazz or joined the Autobots.”

Knockout didn’t say anything but the look in his optics was familiar. It was the look Elita-One had given him when she realized Bumblebee was better off in the streets than with his mentor: pity.

“Hey, don’t give me that look.” Bumblebee said, “You aren’t the only the only one with a miserable mechhood.”

“I feel like I’ve spent my whole life dealing with addicts.” Knockout sighed, “If it wasn’t circuit boosters, it was engex, crysmag, gliss, ore-8, or dark energon. I thought the war would get rid of those things. Cybertron’s been dead for longer than it was alive. Why do we still have to deal with all its problems?”

If Bumblebee had an answer for that riddle, the war would have ended a lot faster.

“Alright, that’s enough bland introspection for a lifetime.” Knockout nudged Bumblebee. “Let’s take a look at my finish.”

Bumblebee should have expected Knockout to say that rather than sit quietly and watch the stars through the hangar windows. He removed a mirror from his subspace and handed it to the red mech. It was a side-mirror that Bumblebee had accidentally knocked off an abandoned truck years ago and decided to keep it. It’s not like the truck was going to miss it.

Knockout studied his faceplate and chassis like a surgeon checking stitches. “Let’s see: nice shine, no streaks or undue spots.” He smiled at Bumblebee, “A solid seven out of ten job.”

“ _Seven_?” Bumblebee said.

“Hey, I can’t go handing out _too_ many compliments.” Knockout purred, “Then you might charge more, or expect a tip.”

“Who says I’m not going to expect one now?” Bumblebee asked and waggled his optical ridges.

A blue and yellow comm flashed up on Bumblebee’s HUD.

**[SMOKESCREEN: Hey bee! We gotta sitch in the kitch!!]**

**[can’t it wait? B/ ]**

**[SMOKESCREEN: It’s kind of a fiery sitch!!]**

**[stop overreacting. if it was a *serious* fire, an alarm wouldve gone off--]**

A klaxon sounded. The hangar sprinkles gave a lazy drizzle of flame-suppressing coolant for two seconds before drying up.

“Of _course_ , this would happen.” Bumblebee sighed. He looked at Knockout, “Duty calls. You should be resting anyway.”

Knockout crossed his arms with a huff. “I’m my own mech. I’ll rest when I _feel_ like it.”

“As long as you avoid the kitchen, do what you want.” Bumblebee said and ran off toward the commissary.


	17. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Smokescreen nearly burns down the Nemesis (again), Ratchet does a house call.

> **It was mostly smoke damage and minor burns in the commissary kitchen. Knockout was able to treat the Vehicons without a problem, while Ratchet added another prohibition to Smokescreen’s culinary misadventures. Apparently, no one told the young mech that you can’t turn magnesium, potassium, and lithium into gazpacho.**

“Habsuite call.” Ratchet said, walking through the office door.

Optimus sat up in his chair with a snort. “I-I’m awake!”

“Of _course_ you are.” Ratchet stepped aside so the three Vehicons could carry in two berths. “Just put it in the corner there.”

Optimus’s processor was still waking up as he watched the Vehicons set up the berths in the corner. They placed them side by side, hammering them together to make a slab big enough for at least four bots (or two Optimuses, by Ratchet’s estimation). Once the Vehicons secured the recharge slab, they saluted Optimus and Ratchet.

“Task completed, sir!” said one Vehicon, “Permission to refuel and engage post-shift leisurely activities, sir?”

“Stand down, soldiers.” Optimus said but there was a smile on his lips, “You don’t need to report every single action to us. You’re a member of the team…uh. Excuse me, but what are your designations?”

“Steve the Vehicon, sir!”

“I’m Tiffany.”

“I… don’t know.” muttered the third Vehicon, “I haven’t found anything that fits me yet.”

“I’m certain you’ll find a designation.” Ratchet said, gently. Most of the Vehicons chose designations from the pieces of human pop culture they were exposed to. Bulkhead had already broken up two fights concerning Vehicons wanting to be named ‘Dr. Dre’ or ‘Macross’.

“Vehicons, out!” Steve said. The three saluted before exiting the office.

After they left, Optimus sighed, “At least it’s an improvement over the cowering and the pleas of ‘don’t slag me’.”

“I was worried that the Vehicons would recreate the same toxic dynamics they experienced under Decepticon rule, but they seem to have already developed their own social criteria.” Ratchet said. He was still unsure if the Vehicons could be considered Cybertronians. From the suspiciously vague notes Knockout had decoded, the Vehicons were spark clones with low processing power and a focus on obedience and durability. If Ratchet was a technologist rather than a medic, he could have discerned where Vehicons fell regarding the race and subspecies of Cybertron.

“Perceptor would have loved to observe them,” Optimus said.

A far-off look crossed Optimus’s faceplate. It had been years since they had thought of their fallen and disappeared comrades. Then the expression disappeared as he picked up the datapad he had been reading before nodding off.

Ratchet perched on the edge of the desk as if Optimus was a data clerk at the Hall of Records and Ratchet was slumming around the city once again. “Reviewing the government files Arcee got from the children?”

“They’re no longer children, but yes.” Optimus said, “I’ve been pondering as to how our new society should be run while also considering how to tell the Galactic Council to frag off.”

“In the politest way possible, of course.”

Optimus nodded. “Of course. I was thinking of writing a very nice abstract before concluding with, ‘Take your imperialist methodologies and cram them right back up your exhaust port’.”

“Organics don’t have exhaust ports, but I see your point.” Ratchet touched Optimus’s shoulder pauldron. “Come on. You can read the document while resting.”

Optimus grumbled but was too tired to argue against comfort. He laid down on the newly installed berth and was reminded of the other times he came back. The former Prime would be exhausted from whatever time vortex, cloning shenanigan, being glued back together, or disentangling from an alien hive-mind that all he wanted to do was recharge. Ratchet would have a large, comfortable berth available and remain huddled against his sleeping conjunx.

But that was before. As Optimus laid down, Ratchet walked to the door, ready to make the long trek to his quarters for the recharge shift.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said.

Ratchet froze at the still-shut door.

“Yes?” Ratchet said. His words were slow and steady as he struggled to keep the emotion out his vocalizer.

“I know we’re not together anymore and this is a selfish request but…” Optimus muttered.

Ratchet wouldn’t let the former Prime embarrass himself any further. He approached the berth and laid down, wrapping an arm around Optimus’s waist.

“I know,” Ratchet whispered.

They laid together for so long that the habsuite lights flickered off, entering sleep mode. Optimus rested his head on Ratchet’s shoulder-pauldron, stroking the arm wrapped around him. A small voice in the back of Ratchet’s processor reminded him that this was the worst thing he could be doing; that this physical closeness would make Optimus think that their relationship was mended and all was forgiven.

Ratchet decided to ignore the voice and shuttered his optics. He still didn’t know what his relationship with Optimus was, but for now, he needed—no, _deserved_ a peaceful recharge.

When the medic wakes, it’s from his sensors detecting light. Ratchet opened his optics to see Optimus sitting up, carefully scrolling through a brightly-lit datapad. Ratchet squinted at the pad screen, playing footage of Ultra Magnus’s communication from Tyrest Station. Optimus was rewinding and slowly moving through a part of the video.

“Looking for something?” Ratchet murmured with a yawn.

“There was something strange about Ultra Magnus,” Optimus said.

“Aside from him parroting the words of the Galactic Council?”

“ _Aside_ from that.” Optimus said, “His optics weren’t focused on us. He was looking at something…there. You see that?”

The footage was frozen on a frame of Ultra Magnus. His optics were looking to the left. In the furthest right optic was a shape being reflected in the polished glass.

“Could he be reading a cue card?” Optimus murmured.

“Nothing Ultra Magnus said sounded read or rehearsed. He believed in what he was being told.” Ratchet said, “Can we enhance the image?”

Optimus captured the frame and loaded it into another program. He zoomed in until Ultra Magnus’s optic filled the entire screen. The reflected image was a blue and white blur.

“A minibot?” Optimus asked. 

“Too fuzzy to tell.” Ratchet said. 

Optimus sent the image through a filter, ebbing away pixelation and blur. Ratchet’s tank twisted as he studied the image, picking out large optics and round shoulder pauldrons attached to a tiny body.

“No.” Ratchet rubbed his faceplate as he pondered the image, “Look at the proportions of the helm compared to the pauldrons. That’s a protoform. Maybe class 2 or 3.”

“A sparkling?” Optimus fell silent as he stared at the image. It could have been the enhancement software, but Ratchet saw a smile on their small faceplate. “Why would there be a sparkling with Ultra Magnus at Tyrest Station?”

“Wouldn’t you want to be there when your mentor is making an important speech?” Ratchet chuckled.

“Magnus has an apprentice? No, he would have certainly told me.” Optimus said. He then frowned, “And even if he did, where would they have come from? The only active Well is on Cybertron, and the Wreckers never took on apprentices. It was unnecessary--”

Ratchet smirked. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you’re taking this personally.”

“I am _not_!” Optimus huffed, “It just doesn’t make sense. Ultra Magnus has always followed protocols. He wouldn’t have ignored the tradition of introducing the first apprentice to his former mentor.”

Ratchet couldn’t his amusement. There were few things Optimus took personally but certain customs always mattered more than he was willing to admit. He knew the Autobot leader had hidden the sting of Ultra Magnus’s defection by burying himself in work. Learning about the existence of a possible sparkling apprentice was just adding insult to injury.

“We’re certainly going to have words about this, Tyrest or not,” Optimus grumbled.

“I’m certain you’ll give him an audial-full.” Ratchet said, patting Optimus on the shoulder-pauldron.

Optimus exited the image enhancement program with a grumble and opened a word program. He started furiously typing on the datapad.

Ratchet sighed and shuttered his optic. “You’re determined not to recharge comfortably.” 

“Just finalizing some thoughts.” Optimus insisted.

“I’m certain.” Ratchet made a memo to get a desk so datapads wouldn’t start piling up on their berth.


	18. Arcee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcee encounters familiar and unfamiliar faces aplenty at Darkmount.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: abandonment, gender identity issues, misgendering, non-graphic robogore during italicized scenes

> **Arcee’s first mission as the head of special ops doesn’t go _exactly_ go as planned but that’s typical. During Prowl’s first spec-op mission, he acquired a Dinobot hatchling and an insecticon harem, but that’s another story.**

Arcee knew newly made ships were temperamental, but the _Sky Claw_ was on a different level. The Cybertronian femme had acquired motorized bicycle alt-modes that were less with their controls. Eventually, she gave up trying to wrestle with the ship’s manual controls and set it on autopilot for Darkmount’s coordinates. While the ship steered itself, Arcee looked out the cockpit window.

The war had decimated Cybertron but Decepticon-held areas like Tarn and Kaon had suffered the most. The northern hemisphere’s cities were ruined but the southern hemisphere’s environments were decimated. Giant gulches that went miles below the surface tore through the land, creating caverns that would swallow Earth’s Grand Canyon whole and ask for seconds. It gave the already ravaged planet a shape like a rotting apple. Reawakening the Well generated energon and new sparks but Arcee had no idea what that would do for the ruined environment of their metal homeworld.

Would Cybertron ever be like it was during the Golden Age? Would they even be able to achieve the sparse civilization that existed during the Age of Wrath?

_/Crashed ship detected./_ the ship’s AI chirped.

Arcee sat up in the captain’s chair, jolted from her darkening thoughts.

“Put it on screen,” she said.

The screen displayed the crater-filled landscape of the lower east quadrant of what was likely Kaon. A starship had crashed by a jagged outcropping of corundum and titanium. The rear had broken off, dropping gears and other bits all over the desert. Judging by the damage and trail of debris, the ship had likely broken up during reentry.

“Take us down ten mechanometers from the site,” Arcee said. If there was trouble, it was always best to keep your getaway vehicle as far away as possible.

Once landed, Arcee shifted into alt-mode. As she approached the ship, it was in far worse condition than she initially thought. The hull was full of cracks and streaked with space radiation burns, likely from faulty shielding. Arcee pinged the starship’s AI but got static, so the AI was either dead or malfunctioning. Since that was a dead-end, she studied the ship’s shape and tried to match it with known ships in the Autobot database.

It took a while and Arcee had nearly given up the search when her HUD finally pinged a result.

_Ship identified: Model 84 Autobot space cruiser, designation: ‘Kipper’._ the search engine reported.

It wasn’t any ship Arcee was familiar with, but she wasn’t a pilot. The database revealed only cursory information; the _Kipper_ was a ferrying cruiser intended for hauling soldiers toward or from larger battleships and/or doing fuel runs for said battleship. It was focused on energy efficiency and lacked weapons or weapons that would make a difference during a fight. The last record of the _Kipper_ was during the abandoning of Cybertron when it had been commandeered for moving Autobot civilians off-planet.

Arcee shifted back to root mode and approached the giant gouge in the _Kipper’s_ side.

“Hello?” Arcee called.

No response.

“I’m an Autobot. Designation: Arcee.” Arcee said.

Still no answer.

Arcee passed through the crack but there wasn’t a spark around. The ship was lived in though: the remains of a couch, some berths, empty energon cubes, stuffed animals, toy guns, and soft-tipped darts. Going by the focus on soft materials and an overabundance of toys, the femme could only reach one conclusion.

“A creche,” Arcee said.

Had the ship been orbiting Cybertron in the hopes that their home would return to normal? Or had they been squatting on Moonbase One? There had been rumors that after the war heated up, a group of neutrals had commandeered a starship and hidden out there. Cybertronians had hidden underground. It was a stretch, but stranger things had happened.

Arcee explored more of the ship, stumbling over discarded boxes of snacks, and stepping on some incredibly sharp action figures.

“ _Definitely_ protoforms about,” Arcee muttered as she pulled out a toy arm jammed into her heel.

The ship’s bridge was the most heavily damaged. The computer was shorted out and the emergency door had been blasted off. Arcee walked to the door and looked at the rust-speckled sands. A trail of wheels and pedeprints led away from the ship, ambling into the desert.

Survivors.

In the distance were the sharp spires of Darkmount. Arcee’s spark gave a faint sputter.

“Hang on, kids. I’m coming.”

Arcee changed back to alt-mode and sped toward the ancient fortress.

The silence surrounding Darkmount only made Arcee even more uneasy. She returned to root mode, deployed her guns, and put on a beacon on the public Autobot channel. Nothing pinged back. Spark sinking, Arcee moved toward the Darkmount entrance. The doors had been ripped off and tossed aside, leaving giant gouges in the metal structure.

Predacon-sized gouges.

She moved even more cautiously, expecting to be greeted by the snarl of Predacons or the fortress’s defense turrets. As Arcee moved down the main hall, she saw that turret guns were deployed but still. The walls were marked with splatters of dried energon and laserfire burns, so the security system must have been active. Still, there was no way to tell who (or what) it had been used on.

Arcee pressed forward.

The hall emptied into a circular throne room. Going by the black and purple palette, pointy aesthetic, and Decepticon emblem hanging above the wall, it had to be Megatron’s old throne room. (What was with the bucket-helm and making sure he had a throne?) In the corner was a large pile of rusting and snapped machine parts arranged into a crude nest.

Arcee sent out another Autobot beacon. No response.

More dread settled in Arcee’s spark chamber. What if the mentors were long since dead and the protoforms were on their own? There was no way they could pick up a beacon without training, let alone respond to it. A creche would have given the older protoforms training weapons but nothing that could deter a Predacon.

Something snarled behind Arcee. A shape loomed in a hall adjoining the throne room. Arcee moved behind the throne, making herself as small as possible.

Predaking strolled across the throne room. He was in his dragon alt-mode and mindless chewing on something. The Predacon walked to the pile of parts and began kneading it, not unlike the Earth cats Arcee had seen on the Internet. Then he spat out what it had been chewing on—a Cybertronian arm—before curling up and shutting his optics.

Arcee’s tanks roiled at the sight of the arm. Another noise echoed from the halls and Arcee couldn’t tell if it was Cybertronian or Predacon. Given the ease of Predaking, it was likely to be the latter. The noise quickly moved away, allowing Arcee to return her attention to the Predaking.

The Predaking’s vents eased into a pattern, showing he was entering recharge. The severed arm rested in the nest, dented with tooth marks. Arcee moved toward the beast’s nest, inching with the stealth she had practiced as a scout and spy for years. Preparing her tank for the worst, she pulled the Cybertronian arm from Predaking’s claws. Arcee stared at the sleek, silver Cybertronian arm with talons on its servo.

Wait, a silver arm? _Talons_?

Arcee’s proximity alarm sounded. The femme looked over her shoulder. A winged shape was approaching, holding a gun.

“Gotcha!”

Arcee dropped the arm and fired her gun. The intruder dodged out of the way and fired their weapon.

A foam dart smacked into Arcee’s forehelm. Arcee shuttered her optics and slowly reached up, plucking off the foam dart.

In front of Arcee was a Seeker. They had a magenta and black paint job, but their faceplate was familiar. If Arcee hadn’t known better, she would have thought Starscream’s old frame had come to life.

“…I’m gonna take a stab in the dark and say you’re not here to play Shoot Shoot Bang Bang.” said the magenta Seeker.

Arcee studied the Seeker. There was no Decepticon shield on his chassis or wings, but they were badly scuffed and scratched. A neutral? Still, he looked too much like Starscream to deem trustworthy. 

“Designation,” Arcee demanded. She’d find out from the server if he was trustworthy. 

“Uh--” the Seeker pointed behind her.

A rumbling growl filled the air. Arcee turned around just in time to come faceplate to muzzle with Predaking. She fired her guns, but the beast wasted no time in smacking her across the room. Her body slammed against the wall with a loud _crack._ Her HUD filled with errors, as if Arcee _couldn’t_ tell from the pain searing across her processor that part of chassis was impaled on a pointy, Decepticon wall sconce. She couldn’t even kick her legs to wiggle free. Or move them at all.

The Predaking wasn’t done with her yet. He rushed over, seizing his jaws around her, and yanked her off the sconce. Teeth pierced Arcee’s armor, cutting down to the protoform. Arcee screamed, though it mostly came out as garbled static.

“Hey! No! Preddy! Put her down!” the Seeker shouted.

The Predaking growled, unable to articulate with his mouth full of Arcee’s frame.

“C’mon! Spit her out!” the Seeker ordered.

Arcee didn’t know if it was the energon loss, but she could have sworn that the Seeker was scolding the Predaking—the most deadly and vicious Cybertronian creature to ever exist—like an Earth dog caught chewing his owner’s shoes. What added to the oddness was that the Predaking sounded like he was...whimpering?

The giant beast loosened his jaw, dropping Arcee unceremoniously onto the floor. Arcee grunted, now covered in her own energon _and_ Predacon drool.

_Great_.

“When I said, ‘put her down’, I meant ‘gently’.” the Seeker sighed. He walked over to Arcee and rolled her onto her back. Arcee’s optics were starting to glitch out, downgrading from HD to 480p. If she kept bleeding out, she’d be down to 8-bit (if she didn’t offline entirely).

“This is _exactly_ why Spinster doesn’t let you play with his stuff.” the Seeker sighed. He tilted his helm, “Wait, where’s her arm?”

Predaking chuffed as if he was pouting.

“Spit that out too!” the Seeker ordered. 

Predaking grunted and spat Arcee’s left arm on the ground. He nudged it toward the magenta Seeker with his claw.

“We _definitely_ need to get you some new toys.” the Seeker sighed.

Arcee was bleeding, her processor was spinning, but she was certain this Seeker was a Decepticon. No sane Autobot would associate with a Predacon, let alone tame it. The warnings were piling up on her HUD, begging her to do something about her injuries, or enter stasis-lock.

“What’s going on— _whoa_!” A mech walked into the throne room. He moved in closer to get a look at Arcee, “What in Primus happened?”

Not only was Arcee’s optic resolution now at 360p but she was certain this mech only had half a helm. As her vision further downgraded, more mechs were showing up. Now Arcee could only distinguish the strangers by rough polygons.

“Dibs on the helm.” said a giant purple cube.

“Would you idiots knock it off!” a small blue rectangle demanded. The shape rolled around, facing the orange and brown cylinder. “Predaking! Did you kill another guest?”

“Aw, Nickle, I’m sure he’s sorry--” said a magenta triangle. 

“No, buts! You have to be firm with him about this!” The blue rectangle held up a white cube and began spritzing the beast.

Predaking hissed and whined, scampering out the room. The polygonal form flattened, becoming a flat 2D image as Arcee’s optics downgraded to 16-bit.

“And you _think_ about what you’ve done!” the blue rectangle yelled.

The sight of the Predaking scampering like a frightened turbofox was a little too absurd for Arcee’s processor to handle. “You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Arcee said, though it came out as gargled static and energon-filled coughs. One of the shapes said, “She’s going into lock!” while another said, “Dibs on the pedes!” before her optics shuttered. 

_Arcee always tried to recharge with a cleared processor. There was nothing worse than trying to rest and then being faced with all the mistakes of the long, agonizing past. Unfortunately, automatic stasis-lock prevented such courtesies. For the first time in eons, Arcee returned to the past not featuring Cliffjumper, Tailgate, or Airachnid but the choices made long before._

_Arcee returned to the time before the Autobots. Before she knew anything. Back when her purpose only involved a perfectly square piece of land in the Acid Wastes of Stanix. The time when Arcee—no, not ‘Arcee’ but N-11—patrolled the area on only a quarter-ration of energon and a single gun welded to his arm._

_For N-11, the days were indistinguishable. He stayed within his assigned perimeters and shot at anything that approached. It didn’t matter if they were wild animals or Cybertronians. If they were not his superiors, he fired on sight._

_N-11 did not recognize any changes around him. He did not notice the energon rations slowing or the lack of commands. N-11 did not worry when he ran out of ammo and fuel. N-11 only pinged Fort Scyk only when the lack of ammo prevented N-11 from his prime command of destroying an approaching nitro-tiger._

_Fort Scyk did not answer. There was only static._

_N-11 approached Fort Scyk. He could not remember the last time he left his post Acid Wastes. He had mapped out its hazards, from the contaminated pits of neutronic fallout to the fissures full of energy leeches. N-11 came across the dead frames of his comrades, either melted by acid or savaged by wildlife. N-11 harvested what energon he could, but their ammo was also depleted. The siphoned energon was only enough for N-11 to make it to the fort._

_Only part of Fort Scyk still stood. The protective shield was gone, and an entire wing had been blown away. There was not a spark nearby. N-11 could not comm anyone and the entrance had collapsed, so he entered through the giant gap that now made up the eastern section of the fortress._

_Greying frames laid in the halls, not suffering from laser burn or infected wounds. N-11 pulled them apart the same way he had done for his comrades. Their sparks had collapsed, leaving the chambers and frame intact. A more intelligent bot would have concluded it as damage from an electromagnetic pulse bomb, but not N-11. His processor struggled to understand where his superiors had gone. There was nothing in his protocols against consuming dead superiors, so he siphoned what energon her could._

_It was still not enough. The frames had been dead for a long time._

_“Whoa there, buddy.”_

_N-11 looked up. With such little fuel in his system, he had to turn off his proximity alarms. Two mechs stood in the hall with him—one black and the other red. Neither were in N-11’s database of Fort Scyk superiors. They both had guns trained on him, waiting for an excuse to fire._

_“Where’d you come from, my mech?” asked the black mech._

_N-11 held up his gun. He could not win but he had to obey protocols._

_“You have entered a prohibited area. Leave.” N-11 said._

_“Do you know what happened here?” asked the red mech._

_Answering questions was not part of N-11’s protocols. He fired his gun but the bullet was weak; not even enough to discourage a rooting pidgeonoid. The two mechs moved out of the way, using the inactive frames as cover. It was not a long fight. The black mech shot off N-11’s gun arm and a leg. If N-11 was less empty, he would have cared about the loss of limbs. Instead, N-11 questioned how this would impact his protocols._

_The red and black mechs stood over N-11._

_“Seems like we got off on the wrong pede,” said the black mech, “so we’ll ask again: what happened here?”_

_“Data not found,” N-11 said._

_“What?” asked the black mech._

_“Jazz, this is a waste of time--” sighed the red mech._

_The black mech, named Jazz, held up his servo._

_“What’s your designation, soldier?” Jazz asked. His vocalizer was soft, although N-11 was too empty to know what softness was._

_“Designation: N-11,” said N-11._

_“N-11?” the red mech muttered, “That’s a pre-designation. For a sparkling.”_

_“No,” Jazz said, “for an MTO.”_

_The red mech stated his designation was Ratchet and the other was Jazz. They were Autobots looking for survivors at Fort Scyk._

_“Query: what is term ‘Autobot’?” asked N-11._

_“Didn’t your superiors explain the war to you?” Jazz asked._

_“Query: what is term ‘war’?” asked N-11._

_The mechs looked at each other. If N-11 had a superior processor and optics, he would be able to distinguish faceplate expressions._

_“There any more of you around?” Jazz asked._

_“Data not found,” N-11 said._

_“I think that’s his way of saying ‘I don’t know’.” Ratchet said. He removed a device from his subspace, one that N-11 recognized but did not know the designation of but Arcee would know it as a ‘datapad’. “I’m going to scan your processor. Do I have your permission to scan you?”_

_“Query: what is term ‘permission’?” N-11 asked._

_“Primus.” Jazz breathed._

_Ratchet hooked Arcee up to the device. He scrolled through the datapad, studying it like N-11’s superiors always did. N-11 stared at the ceiling and wondered who would kill the roaming pneuma-lions and scraplets out in the Acid Wastes now that his gun arm was gone._

_“This…is abhorrent.” Ratchet murmured, “There’s only four command lines in here. It’s just…‘Obey. Consume. Kill. Go to 10’.”_

_“That_ can’t _be it.” Jazz said, “If you have an MTO without basic education or functioning lessons--”_

_“Jazz, look at the damn pad!” Ratchet held up the datapad to the other mech, “He’s just…_ empty _.”_

_Jazz looked at the datapad and shook his helm._

_“Primus have pity,” he muttered._

_N-11 did not understand what the mechs spoke of. He had always been empty._

_The mechs silently conferred with one another through comms. N-11 sat on the floor. Protocols had not told him what would happen if his superiors no longer functioned. Fort Scyk was independent and there were no other fortresses for him to report to. Should he return to the Acid Wastes? But what would happen if he ran out of energon again? Aside from the frames of fallen soldiers and the dispensary cubes, N-11 did not know how to acquire more._

_Eventually, Jazz approached N-11. Even though he rested on his knee-joints, he still towered over N-11._

_“Alright, my mech.” Jazz said, “You don’t seem to have the ability to read or write and you don’t have an alt-mode. You’re basically a sparkling in an adult mech’s frame.”_

_“Query: what is the term ‘sparkling’?” N-11 asked._

_“It’s…skip it.” Jazz continued, “Point is that your superiors are gone and you’re the only one we found kicking. Wanna come with us?”_

_“Data not found,” N-11 said._

_“I don’t think he understands the concept of ‘coming along’,” Ratchet said, “and our mission was to investigate the communication blackout at Fort Scyk. Not acquire wayward bots.”_

_Jazz looked at the other mech. “So, you’d leave a fellow machine all alone to starve in the Acid Wastes?”_

_Ratchet grumbled but then sighed. “Maybe we can pull…_ some _information from his processor. Once we figure out what’s going on.”_

_N-11 had nothing to say, as he did not understand what the mechs were debating about. Jazz picked up N-11 with ease and carried him out. Only then did N-11 have something to say._

_“Protocol violation: leaving perimeter.” was the only thing N-11 said._

_“I think I know what happened to you.” Ratchet said._

_They were on a small ship heading to a place called Iacon. Ratchet had to explain to N-11 what Iacon was, followed by what a city was, what a Cybertron was, and then a planet. N-11 did not understand: there were other places outside the Acid Wastes? Those two locations were massive to N-11’s slow processor. The idea of a whole planet was unfathomable. While N-11’s processor reeled from the new information, Ratchet repaired him._

_“You must have been cold constructed in a hurry,” Ratchet said, “Your superiors must have meant to put in additional code but either their factory-AI malfunctioned or those glitches just…_ forgot _about you. Either way, you’re incomplete. Do you understand?”_

_“Data not found,” N-11 said._

_“You are…” Ratchet went to his desk and grabbed a half-empty cube of energon. He held it up for N-11, “Think of yourself like this cube. The remaining energon is the coding for your processor and basic functions. You only have a small portion of code in you.” He swirled around the energon. “Only partially full.”_

_“Empty.”_

_“No. Not_ empty _.” Ratchet insisted. He put down the cube, “With your permission, I’d like to try patching in the missing code. In your current state, your processor doesn’t have enough power to absorb new information. That’s why you’ve been unable to learn basic skills. This will make you…function better. Do you understand?”_

_“Function?” Out of everything the medic had said, N-11 only recognized that term. Still, he did not understand how something empty could become full._

_“Yes. Function.” Ratchet insisted. He wrapped his servos around N-11’s single three-fingered servo. “I want to help you function better.”_

_“Function.” N-11’s protocols demanded he maintain his frame. “N-11 must function.”_

_“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” Ratchet said._

_Iacon was nothing like Fort Scyk or the Acid Wastes. There were no animals in the underbrush waiting to feast on N-11’s plating or overgrown mechanovegetation. Buildings were clustered together and there were more bots than N-11 had ever seen before. N-11 was brought to what Ratchet said was an Autobot base and it was safe from the Decepticons, who were their enemies. The mech called Red Alert did not trust N-11 but Jazz insisted that N-11 was harmless._

_Ratchet brought N-11 to two mechs designated Brainstorm and Perceptor. The three of them discussed many terms that N-11 did not understand, like RAM and memory expansion._

_“It’s amazing he’s functioning at all,” Perceptor said._

_“I think it’s his lack of higher function that allowed for his survival.” Brainstorm added, “The Decepticons tried out their new electromagnetic pulse bomb at Fort Scyk. It disrupted not just the Grid node but every spark within blasting range. The distance along with the low power of N-11’s processor kept his spark from straining itself like the other victims.”_

_Perceptor sighed. “And now with the Fort gone, Stanix will likely fall to the Megatron...”_

_“Query: what is term ‘Megatron’?” N-11 asked._

_“We’ll worry about that later.” Ratchet said, “Let’s get you fixed up.”_

_Ratchet assured N-11 that he would be alright, as the procedure was one that Brainstorm had done before. N-11 did not understand why Ratchet was reassuring him so much. The medic at Fort Scyk had not bothered to do so._

_“Query: what is function of this action?” N-11 asked._

_“There is no…” Ratchet stopped and then said, “It’s the right thing to do.”_

_“Query: What is term ‘the right thing’?”_

_“You’ll understand it eventually,” Ratchet said, “and you’ll do the same for others.”_

_N-11 awoke to light and color stinging his optics. Everything was bright and strange, and it was searing his processor. Brainstorm had to shut off the medbay lights to stop his shrieking. It took some coaxing, but Ratchet studied his optics with a small flashlight._

_“Primus, the coding was so broken he didn’t even have high-definition optical software.” Ratchet said, “His vision must have been monochromatic, 8-bit resolution until now.”_

_Brainstorm shuddered. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”_

_N-11 was given pain patches and a microfiber covering to cope with the disorientation of his upgrades. It was a long time before his optics adjusted enough for him to walk around without pain. After N-11 adjusted, Ratchet introduced another mech to N-11 named Elita-One. Ratchet told N-11 that Elita-One would help him learn basic functions._

_“You’re not the first mech to get a major systems upgrade,” Elita-One said. His voice was different from the others. N-11 found it…pleasant. “In an ideal situation we would slowly upgrade you but given the state of your coding, doing it bit by bit wouldn’t have do you any favors.”_

_When Elita-One wasn’t out on patrol, he taught N-11 how to use his body, how to send and receive voice comms, and set up a basic HUD. Ratchet was often busy in the medbay but when he had time, he taught N-11 about Cybertronian history and the Autobot cause. He introduced N-11 to Bumblebee. Together, they learned basic glyphs and how to assemble simple words._

_“This is fascinating.” Brainstorm said, “Technically, N-11 is far older than Bumblebee, but its processor is still grasping basic functions. It truly_ is _an adult mech with a sparkling’s mind.”_

_“Don’t speak of him like that.” Elita-One growled, “He’s a_ mech _; not one of your science experiments.”_

_Brainstorm held up his servos. “Easy, femme! I was just making an observation.”_

_N-11 paused in his game of matching glyphs to pictures on his datapad. “Query: what is the term ‘femme’?”_

_Brainstorm and Elita-One paused in their bickering._

_“Oh shoot, did we forget to explain gender?” Brainstorm murmured._

_After some muddled explanations that neither N-11 nor Bumblebee understood, Elita-One acquired the help of another, smaller Cybertronian. They looked nothing like the bots N-11 had seen before. They had many colors on their frame and a strange long helm. Accompanying this strange Cybertronian was what looked like a large yellow and blue turbofox._

_“N-11, this is Artemis.” Elita-One said, “She’s a Cybertronian from the Gaia colony. Her people are the ones who first introduced the concept of gender to Cybertron.”_

_Artemis bowed to N-11._

_“A pleasure to be meeting you!” Artemis giggled. The turbofox growled at N-11 with its metal hackles raised. “Be of ease, Moon! N-11 is friend to us!”_

_The yellow turbofox’s answer was an angry hiss._

_“Query: you have domesticated the turbofox?” N-11 asked._

_“Moon is not turbofox. Moon is Moon!” Artemis said. N-11 had no response to that and Artemis tilted her helm, “Oh, pardoning of me! My Visual Basic Cybertronian is not yet good. I was created on Gaia. Gaians speak JavaScript Cybertronian mostly.”_

_“I think you’ll get along fine.” Elita-One chuckled._

_They did not. N-11 found Artemis to be irritatingly chatty and Moon consistently hostile when they weren’t being fed. Despite his misgiving, N-11 found the young machine’s lessons regarding the alien concept of gender enlightening. The more N-11 learned about it, the more he looked at the aesthetic differences between mechs, femmes, and others. And the more than N-11 learned about it, the more he wanted to be…different. With the Autobots, he had an option to change himself entirely._

_As N-11 learned language, he came to a conclusion. A conclusion he would have never reached prowling around the Acid Wastes and one that would never have been allowed by his former, neglectful superiors._

_“You’ve made a lot of progress,” Orion Pax said._

_N-11 stood in the high commander’s office. Orion Pax did not appear to be much at first but he had proven himself during the skirmishes N-11 had seen him take part in._

_“Only with your help and the other Autobots, sir,” N-11 said._

_“You did most of the work,” Orion Pax said, “but I think you need a proper adult designation. Do you have anything in mind?”_

_“No, sir,” N-11 said._

_“Are there any glyphs you’re fond of?”_

_N-11 considered._

_“Arcee.” he said and used the glyphs for ‘intelligent’ and ‘self’._

_“A fitting designation indeed,” Orion said._

_“There…is one more thing.” N-11, now called Arcee, said. “Elita-One mentioned that there is a...ritual…for those who want to become femmes.”_

_“You mean a QRceanera?”_

_Arcee nodded. “Yes, I was…I know we don’t have much energon to spare or time for frivolities but--”_

_Orion smiled._

_“Arcee,” Orion said, “we would be delighted to host your QRceanara.”_

_Arcee’s spark stuttered but she nodded._

_“T-thank you, sir,” Arcee said._

_“Please, call me ‘mentor’.” Orion said, “It’s only appropriate after hosting you for this life-changing event.”_

Arcee emerged from stasis lock with a gasp. One of her optics was cracked and she couldn’t move her legs. Despite the crack, her optics had returned to their regular resolution. She was looking up at a purple ceiling, which meant she was likely still in Darkmount. Her frame was resting on a hunk of metal serving as a medical berth.

An aquamarine minibot was sitting in a chair next to her, fiddling with an ancient datapad. Arcee tried to roll over but couldn’t move an inch without pain shooting down her spine. The minibot looked up from the pad and got on her wheels.

“Easy there, blue bomber.” the minibot said, “Misfire’s pet did a number on you.”

“Nickel…” The magenta Seeker from before poked his helm into the room. “Predaking said he’s sorry. Can he come inside now?”

“No! He gets ten more minutes in the time-out pen!” Nickel ordered.

“But it’s _raining_. And he looks so _sad_.” the magenta Seeker whined. He then noticed Arcee was awake, “Oh, she lived?” He shouted down the hall, “Hey, Fulcrum! You owe me fifty shanix!”

“The pit I do, Misfire!” came the shout from down the hall.

Pede steps raced over to the door and the magenta Seeker, Misfire, was joined by a tan and red K-con (something that Arcee hadn’t seen in eons and had placed in the category of ‘extinct’ along with Predacons).

Fulcrum squinted at Arcee. “She’s barely awake. I don’t consider that ‘living’.”

Arcee had no interest in figuring out what the bet was even about. Her optics were on the emblem proudly displayed on the minibot’s—no, _minicon’s_ chest.

“Decepticon!” Arcee snarled. She tried to engage her guns, only to be greeted by sparks of malfunctioning gears and pain lancing up her sides.

“Ease up there, murderbot.” Nickel said. She removed a large prong from her subspace and jabbed it into the medical port on Arcee’s arm. Arcee yelped but the tense pain in her calipers ebbed away. “You’re still in critical condition. Unless you want a rust infection, you’ll wait until Spinster finishes cleaning our other arm.”

“Just be glad Predaking didn’t _eat_ it.” Fulcrum said, “It took us all _week_ to get back Crankcase’s game console.”

“Only because you wouldn’t let me cut the glitch open.” Nickel scoffed.

“W-what did you do to the survivors?” Arcee said between clenched dentae. The ‘Cons may have patched her up, but she wasn’t going to let her guard down.

“Survivors?” Misfire asked.

“T-the ship crash!” Arcee sputtered, “An Autobot ship crashed not too far from here. The _Skipper_. What did you do to the protoforms onboard?”

“Protoforms?” Misfire looked at Fulcrum, “You snuck a bunch of kids onboard? You should’ve told me! I’m _great_ with kids!”

“Misfire, you can barely keep your pet maniac from mauling people,” Fulcrum said, “or eating them.”

“He said _sorry_!” Misfire insisted.

“Ignore the idiots.” Nickel said to Arcee as Fulcrum and Misfire continued bickering, “What you came across was _our_ ship. This gang of idiots stole an Autobot ship from Mortilus _knows_ where.”

“I didn’t steal it!” Misfire interjected, “I purchased it in a completely legal online website at a considerable discount!”

“But…all the toys on it…” Arcee muttered.

Nickel stared at Arcee and extended her small arms as if to say _Look at us!_ Misfire had already returned to the argument and decided to win it by giving Fulcrum a noogie.

“ _Oh_.” Arcee realized. Yeah, she was _definitely_ going to leave this part out of her report. She looked at Misfire. “Why did you land on Cybertron now? Did you hear the message?”

“What message?” Fulcrum murmured.

Misfire released Fulcrum and grinned. “Oh! I can answer your question, with some _exposition_.” The ‘Con sounded a little too excited to do so.

Fulcrum sat on a broken piece of wall. “Better settle in.” he sighed.

Nickel climbed onto the slab’s edge and rested her face in her hands. “Mech would kill with his stories with how much he talks.” She muttered.

“We start our scene with our heroes, _the_ _Scavengers_ , in the depths of space.” Misfire began, “We were having a regular day of completely legal actions when we learned of something downright dastardly…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Alright, that's gonna be it for updates for a short while. I have surgery next week but hopefully I'll be back to writing as usual once I recover. Take care, everybody! c:


	19. Misfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the hell did the Scavengers end up on Cybertron? Let's have Misfire tell us! 
> 
> Settle in, folks. Its gonna be a while.

> **We now tune in to our scheduled program of ‘The Scavengers’ already in progress. On tonight’s episode, ‘The Writer’s Barely Disguised Fetishes Continue to Dictate What Plot Points Will Be Addressed and What Characters Will Be Introduced Next’**

The _Weak Anthropic Principle_ was in a bit of a spot but that was usual. The planet and the scenery may change but the Scavengers always resolved their problems with their most practical method: fleeing from it as fast as their old starship would allow.

“I told you that planet of dance clubs, hot shareware bots, and free fluorite nachos was too good to be true!” Krok said.

“I _know_ and I’m already leaving a bad review on Space Yelp!” Misfire said, not looking up from his datapad.

“You can’t leave a bad review for a _planet_ on Space Yelp!” Nickel said.

“Then why is there a ‘planet’ category, Nickel? Huh? _Huh_?” Misfire demanded.

“Everything was going fine until Crankcase wouldn’t let us eat those cupcakes at that friendly banquet those colorful equinoids had for us.” Spinster muttered.

“I already told you bunch that those sprinkled cupcakes were _made_ of said colorful equinoids!” Crankcase said.

“And I said that it didn’t matter because it wasn’t anybody we knew!” Krok said, still typing.

“And _I_ said that we wouldn’t be able to digest that slop anyway!” Nickel said, “I’m not spending the next six space-cycles pumping your tanks!”

“Hey, a donut!” Spinster said, pointing out one of the porthole windows on the bridge.

The _WAP_ was rocked by a blast from what was no doubt an equinoid starship in hot pursuit. Misfire rushed to the porthole window, just as a pink and white donut-shaped starship was approaching. They were lucky that the equinoids had just mastered space travel and couldn’t do FTL. Unfortunately, they had access to far heavier weaponry than the _WAP_ and were particularly vicious about ‘rude’ behavior. The donut ship fired two pastel-colored missiles, which had smiley faces painted on their warheads. A klaxon sounded through the _WAP_ as the ship rocked once more.

“Frag this!” Crankcase said. The pilot flipped up a plastic cover protecting a lever and grabbed it, “Let’s just jump!”

“Are you an idiot?” Krok said, “We’ll burn through our fuel reserves!”

“You wanna be turned into dessert?” Crankcase suggested, “’Cause I’d rather not consider what kind of frosting they’d use on me!”

“I’d like buttercream on my cupcake.” Spinster said.

“They’ll get a whole cake out of you, Spins.” Nickel said.

“Everybody grab something!” Crankcase said and yanked the lever.

The _WAP_ gave a violent rumble and the visible stars streaked by. The starship’s ancient gears screeched, and its long-suffering engines screamed along with its crew as they were bounced around its cockpit. After what felt like hours, the WAP popped right back out into space—far away from angry equinoids or their aesthetically cute missiles. 

“Where in the pit are we now?” Misfire asked once he peeled himself off the ground.

“Getting visual.” Crankcase said. 

“Look up, half-helm.” Nickel said, pointing at the screen.

The screen had one image: Cybertron, or what remained of Cybertron after the war. The planet’s surface was no longer a lifeless grey but had flickers of bright blue moving through its surface.

“Holy Monos…” muttered Krok, “Is the Well…awake? Or back? Whatever happened to it.”

“About time.” Spinster said.

“Does this mean the war’s finally over?” Fulcrum asked. 

“Well, we’re about to find out.” Crankcase said.

“Say what now?” Nickel asked.

Crankcase pointed to the console he was still sitting at. “We’re outta fuel and those Smooze Missiles took out our engines. And our stabilizers. Aaaaand the back half of the ship.”

“Shouldn’t an alarm going off then?” Nickel asked.

A klaxon sounded and the emergency lights flickered. The _WAP_ cockpit tilted and began plummeting toward the planet’s surface.

The next ten minutes were not a proud moment for the Scavengers overall, but Misfire especially. He had never been a Decepticon of great bravery, intelligence, strength, or accuracy but he had always tried to maintain the sense of pride and accomplishment that came with being forged a Seeker. In the face of certain, fiery death however, that resolve crumbled like graphite crackers.

Misfire held onto Nickel, blubbering over her finish. Crankcase had accepted fate and was reading his favorite datapad. Fulcrum was trying to escape through a small porthole, which Krok was trying to pull him out of. Spinster was enjoying his favorite past time: staring at his servo.

“Nickel, I have a confession to make.” Misfire sobbed.

“Me first!” Nickel said. Coolant tears ran from the femme’s optics. “Despite everything I’ve said, I’m glad I met you guys! You’re not just my best friends, you’re my family!”

“Nickel, I’m the one who ripped your dress, not Spinster!” Misfire confessed.

 _“You son of a rusted glitch! That dress cost 500 shanix_ _I’ll kill you!”_ Nickel shrieked and her small servos seized Misfire’s throat cables.

Nickel was small but she was unusually strong for a minicon. Hoping to pry her off, Misfire stumbled around the cockpit. He knocked into the computer counsel, pressing a few buttons as he collapsed onto the floor.

The _WAP_ gave another shudder (likely another chunk of the ship falling into the void or pulled into Cybertron’s gravity). Then the starship spun, twisting rapidly until there was a deafening _thud._ Sparks sprayed from the computer counsel, metal rattled, and came apart not unlike an Earth balsawood airplane journeying through the eye of a tornado. The cockpit went dark and after an hour of silence, the ship was finally still.

“Wow…anyone else feel that?” Spinster said in the darkness.

Krok shoved the toppled couch and TV off his frame.

“Alright, roll call.” Krok said, “Who’s alive?”

Misfire slowly sat up with a groan. Nickel was still hanging by his throat like the world’s largest and angriest necklace, completely unconscious thanks to the G-forces of the spinning ship. 

“Me.” Misfire croaked.

The first task was prying Nickel off Misfire, which was easier said than done. Even unconscious, Nickel had a grip that could rival Megatron during his gladiator days. After three tries, Fulcrum called in the expert.

“She was so agitated in her attempts to throttle you that her joints locked up.” Spinster said, “Her grip should loosen once she’s awake and her processor calms down.”

“Cut off her servos!” Misfire said. With the minicon throttling him, he could barely speak above a whisper.

“Without Nickel’s processor controlling them, the servos might crush your throat.” Spinster said.

“Misfire can’t talk extensively. How _tragic_.” Krok chortled.

Misfire’s response was a non-verbal, universal gesture.

With that situation out of the way, the Scavengers surveyed their ship…though there wasn’t much left _to_ survey. The ship was in the worst condition it had ever been it; even worse than that time they crashed onto that planet of weird jellyfish or that time a Golorxian thought their ship was a mate and tried to mount it. The WAP had taken a lot of hits in her time, but this time it had gone down for the count and the bell had rung. There was no alternative but to gather everything of personal and monetary value and leave through one of the many cracks in the starship’s structure.

Outside was sand, craters, and jagged rocks as far as the optic could see. Thankfully, it was empty of the vicious Cybertronian wildlife.

“Where are we?” Fulcrum asked.

“No idea.” Krok admitted, “The planet got so janked up from the war we could be in my forge-town and I wouldn’t know it.”

“I wasn’t even _constructed_ here.” Crankcase muttered. 

“Same.” Misfire coughed. He saw Spinster standing in the opposite direction of the others, waving his hand around. Misfire nudged Crankcase and pointed toward the large mech.

“Spinster, what are you doing?” Crankcase asked.

“Trying to grab the tiny points!” Spinster hissed.

The Scavengers looked toward where their large friend was trying to grab. Apparently, the ‘small points’ Spinster had been trying to grab were the far away tips of a fortress. (How a mech with such poor depth perception could be a brilliant surgeon was beyond Misfire’s understanding).

“Maybe they got spare parts,” Krok said, “or a ship we can borrow.”

“Autobot or Decepticon, though?” Crankcase said, “I’d rather not spend my time in an Autobot brig.”

“Considering its tall, dark, and pointy as all hell, I’m gonna say ‘Con.” Fulcrum said.

Thus began the long walk toward the far-off fortress, which was far more tedious than most walks the Scavengers had experienced. For one thing, there was very little to look at. The other thing was that Nickel was still hanging off Misfire’s throat like the galaxy’s worst ornament, which slowed their pace immensely. The single benefit they had was Spinster, whose large frame cast a shadow that kept the glare of the triple suns out their optics.

“I spy…something brown.” Crankcase said.

“Rust!” Spinster said.

“Correct.” Crankcase said.

“You can’t keep picking ‘rust’!” Krok said.

“We’re not really spoiled for a color palette around here. This isn’t Equestrius-4.” Crankcase said.

“Did _none_ of the Primes think we’d like other colors besides grey and brown?” Fulcrum grumbled, “Organic planets suck but they have more ‘pizzazz’ when it comes to aesthetics.”

If Misfire could talk, he would add that there was plenty of color during the Golden Age of Cybertron. Well, as long as you were high caste and could afford to live in the nicer parts of the city and not a dump like Stanix or Ky-Alexia.

* * *

The fortress entrance was of the usual Decepticon standard: tall, dark, and pointy. Megatron wasn’t the ideal leader (for a _lot_ of reasons), but when he found an aesthetic, he stuck to it. What fit far less with ideal Decepticon architecture was the corpse of the giant monster lying outside the entrance.

“I spy something--” Cranckcase began.

“Shaddup, you!” Fulcrum said.

Krok enacted the Scavenger’s exploration method. Step one: toss a rock at it. The creature didn’t rise in a sudden rage, so they moved onto step two: poke it with a stick. Said stick was broken off from the pointy fencing surrounding the black fortress, but it served its purpose. The creature still didn’t move.

“Dead.” Krok concluded.

“It’s been dead for a while now. Whatever it is.” Crankcase said.

“Predacon.” Spinster said.

“ _P-Predacon_?” Fulcrum said, “Those things are _extinct_! What’s one doing here?” He took a cautious step back, “Do you think there’s more around?”

Misfire didn’t want to stick around and find out. The Scavengers moved into the courtyard and peeked at the entry hall, only to be greeted by a spray of lasers. They hid behind the corpse of the dead monster as the security turrets did their best to blast anything that got within a five-foot radius.

“So _that’s_ what killed the dinosaurs.” Spinster said.

“What’s a dinosaur?” asked Fulcrum.

“Forget Spinster’s made-up words.” Krok said, “We need to get in that fortress.”

“Yeah, but do _any_ of us know how to disable turrets?” Crankcase asked.

Misfire had no idea how to disable anything. He had failed his hacking course so many times that Soundwave questioned the power of his processor. However, he knew that Decepticon fortresses all had the same basic layout. Nickel’s grip prevented him from going on a diatribe though, so he had a to get creative. He pried a talon off the dead Predacon and scribbled on the ground. Then he tugged Crankcase’s servo.

“What is it, boy?” Crankcase asked, “You see something?”

Misfire pointed to his glyphs: _Hall. Left wall panel. Turrets._ Krok, Crankcase, Fulcrum, and Spinster stared at the message.

“Can you read his handwriting? Cause I can’t.” Krok concluded.

“No clue.” Crankcase sighed.

“Total cyber-chicken scratch.” Fulcrum said.

“What’s a ‘turret’?” Spinster asked.

Charades was in order then. Misfire spent the next thirty minutes trying to communicate to his fellows about the hidden panel. Twenty of those minutes were spent just trying to get basic words down, holding Spinster’s attention, and dodging lasers. Eventually they figured out a method by cutting off a chunk of the dead Predacon’s dermal plating and using it as a shield while Crankcase patched into the hall’s turret computer with a datapad.

“It’s asking for a passcode.” Crankcase said.

“Try ‘Decepticons rule, Autobots drool’.” Fulcrum said over the sound of laserfire, “That was the one for our base’s control.”

Crankcase typed it in. 

“Negative.” He reported.

“Try ‘Autobots are Autothots’.” Spinster said.

“I’m _really_ worried about how you know what a ‘thot’ is.” Fulcrum said.

“Negative.” Crankcase said.

The laserfire continued as they used passcodes, from the titles of Megatron’s old poetry to the nicknames the soldiers had for high command. It wasn’t until they reached the bottom of the barrel trying to recall Constructicon nicknames that Misfire had a flash of inspiration.

 _Try ‘Starscream has a flat aft.’_ Misfire wrote in the dust on the floor.

“There’s no way that will--” Krok said.

The lasers immediately stopped.

“Got it!” Crankcase said.

“Good ol’ Uncle Shockwave.” Misfire wheezed, “That was his backdoor for everything.”

Fulcrum raised an optical ridge. “ _Uncle_ Shockwave?”

“I didn’t know Shockwave had a sister.” Spinster said.

The next five minutes were spent trying to imagine what Shockwave’s imaginary sister would look like. Misfire chose to imagine Shockwave, but with a purple bow on her helm, as that seemed to be the most logical conclusion.

* * *

Aside from the corpse of another Predacon, the fortress had been emptied of everything valuable and the only evidence of its existence came from gouges on the eyes of fallen statues and stray wires hanging from the walls. The Predacons must have been inhabiting the place for a while as there were claw marks on the walls, floor, and ceiling along with stray machine parts.

The Scavengers, not wanting to do injustice by their namesake, looked over the pieces. Most of them had been chewed to uselessness, but a single piece was still salvageable: a skinny silver leg with a spiked heel strut.

“How do you even stand on this ridiculous thing?” Fulcrum muttered, holding up the leg.

“Kinda dig the heels though.” Crankcase said, “They’re so…spikey.”

“You want another head injury from falling?” Krok asked.

Misfire was more intrigued by the gouges along the floor and walls. There was also a trail of dried energon leading from the throne room. While Krok and Crankcase debated the merit of fashion versus functionality, Misfire followed the trail. Worst case scenario, it led to a dead mech who had gotten their limbs torn off. Best case scenario, it led to a dead mech with limbs that he could use to pry Nickel off.

The energon splatter stopped abruptly in a room. Going by the large piles of metal detritus, the room been the recycling center. Misfire walked around the piles, questioning if there was anything salvageable. He turned around a tall pile of debris and saw two yellow eyes gazing at him.

Two yellow eyes attached to a giant winged Predacon.

The creature roared.

Nickel’s optics snapped open. “Wha…?” She then turned her helm, _“Holy slag!”_

The Predacon moved in closer. Nickel shrieked and thrashed, striking it on the nose with her roller. The Predacon snarled, rubbing its injured nostril with a talon. Misfire looked around for an exit, only to see the beast’s tail was blocking it. Seeker had to make do by diving behind a pile of broken furniture and rusting chassis.

“Ow! Watch it, you dress-stealing slag-eating idiot!” Nickel said, still hanging from him like a foul-mouthed necklace.

“Let go already!” Misfire whispered. 

“What do you think I’m _trying_ to do?” Nickel hissed, wiggling her arms.

The Predacon’s engines gave a low rumble. Misfire peeked out from the pile. The creature sat by the entrance, turning its helm as it searched for them.

Why wasn’t it chasing them? Misfire didn’t know much about Predacons, but he knew they were obsessive hunters. They chased after prey until it was dead. This one, however, didn’t seem interested in moving far or fast. As Misfire pondered, Nickel was trying to unlock her fingers while using every profanity known to mecha.

“What’s taking so long?” Misfire gasped.

“My calipers are jammed!” Nickel growled, “Probably because you whanged me on that ship console!”

“You were strangling me!”

“I should _still_ strangle you! You don’t see _me_ messing with _your_ things! I’d jam your damn Nerf darts up your aft, but you’d probably be into that!”

Misfire blinked. “That’s a thing?”

Nickel scowled. “I _hope_ not.”

Misfire made a note to check on the galactic datanet later. If they survived.

“I said sorry.” Misfire murmured.

“No, you didn’t! You just admitted to doing it!” Nickel said.

Misfire coughed. His vocal cables were still struggling, but the words were coming a little easier now. “Well…I’m saying sorry now.”

“Why’d you even do it? You guys don’t care about stuff like that.”

Why _did_ he do it? Misfire couldn’t really remember. He just recalled being bored and alone on the _WAP_ when an idle thought occurred to his processor: what if he wore something…nice? Misfire always found the organic concept of clothes strange but fascinating. Not that Cybertronians were always naked, but clothes were usually fashion accessories for special occasions like coronations, mechinations, QRceanera, technomances, and so on. He had seen plenty of crowns, tiaras, eyepatches, ponchos, trench coats, and an assortment of hats but nothing like a dress. Especially not the fancy, costly dresses that organics fussed over.

Just for once, Misfire wanted someone to make a fuss over him that didn’t involve accidentally shooting something, not shooting anything at all, or being declared an enemy of the state because he didn’t want to eat a sugary frosted dessert served to him by a bunch of polychromatic space horses.

He _also_ wished he hadn’t torn the dress in the rush to get it off him before Nickel and the others returned earlier than he expected.

“I dunno.” Misfire concluded, mumbling into his chassis. Nickel was still hanging from his throat, only inches from his faceplate, and he still couldn’t look her in the optics.

Nickel stopped glowering and sighed. “Ugh, whatever. I can’t stay mad at you with your dorky face and weird turbofox puppy optics.”

“I have dangerous, intimidating Decepticon opticals.” Misfire huffed.

“You’re about as dangerous and intimidating as a bowl of gallium soup.” Nickel chuckled, “I bet it was even worse when you were a— _whoa_!”

Nickel’s servos unlatched with a loud _click_. The minicon hit the ground but Nickel smiled and immediately got to her wheels.

“Alright!” Nickel said. She waved her hands around, “Damn. Still can’t feel them.”

“ _Freedom_! _Sweet vocalized freedom!_ ” Misfire cheered. He then regretted shouting because his intake was still sore from Nickel’s grip.

The Predacon didn’t move. Misfire looked at the Predacon once more. It had shut its optics and its breathing was heavily labored, as if pursuing Misfire had expended most of its energy. Misfire saw that its paint was flaking and there were sickly red and yellow splotches all along its underside.

“Awww, the big guy’s sick.” Misfire said. He looked at Nickel, “We should help him out!”

“You have got to be _kidding_ me.” Nickel grumbled. 

“Isn’t there like a medical code to help anyone in need?”

“Yeah, any _one_. As in _people_. Not big giant monsters that should’ve gone extinct— _no! Misfire!_ _Get back here!”_

Misfire was already slowly moving toward the Predacon, as if it was a turbofox puppy and not a giant monster.

“It’s okay…I’m a friend. _Friend_.” Misfire said, gently.

The Predacon snarled, shoving the rust damage that spread along its fangs and gums. It continued growling but seemed unable to move.

Misfire pet it on the snout. “There, there…I won’t hurt you…”

The Predacon’s growls slowly stopped and the room hummed with a low vibration. The beast was…purring? Nickel was slackjawed at the sight of Misfire happily petting one of the most infamous creatures to have ever existed on Cybertron.

“You have got to be _kidding_ me.” Nickel groaned.


	20. Arcee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcee recovers from a Predacon attack and continues with the mission, making discoveries both known and unknown to the Autobots.

> **Previously on “The Scavengers”:**
> 
> **Arcee had to listen to Misfire tell a really long and overly detailed story about what his band of miscreants were doing on Cybertron. A lot of it was pointless exposition and didn’t make a lot of sense and there were way too many in-jokes that I didn’t understand and for some reason, the writer kept putting the word ‘space’ in front of everything.**
> 
> **In conclusion, 5/10 space stars.**

“You have got to be _kidding_ me.” Arcee sighed.

“No, it’s all true!” Misfire insisted, “Especially the part with the equinoids.”

Misfire’s story had taken most of the day to get through. There were occasional diatribes, comments about the strange way some organics processed food, a spirited debate between Crankcase and Fulcrum about what they were doing during Misfire’s Predacon-related misadventure, and questioning the state of Decepticon security if the turrets were so easily thwarted. Arcee had no choice but to listen to Misfire, who delighted in having a captive audience. At least the ‘Cons had the decency to fuel her, although their energon was gritty and only a degree better than human oil in its quality.

“Why would you _fix_ a Predacon?” Arcee asked as Spinster re-installed her newly cleaned arm, “They were the most dangerous creatures in Cybertronian history.”

“ _Exactly_!” Misfire insisted, “We’re not a crack team of hardened soldiers. We’re not even the D-team. _We’re_ the guys you call in when the fighting’s done and the dust has cleared.”

“Clean up, actually.” Fulcrum said.

“You’re…janitors?” Arcee asked. Given the overall viciousness of the Decepticons, she had figured anyone considered useless to the cause would be harvested for spare parts.

“We prefer the term post-battle custodians,” Crankcase said.

“Can’t have high command giving speeches and rousing the troops when there’s dead husks all about!” Misfire said with a big smile.

“Once all the blasting and exploding and general mayhem of the fight is over, we come in and get everything cleaned up,” Krok said. He listed off the duties on his fingers, “Pick up the blown bits, deliver anything useful to the medics, send the Vehicon husks to the scientists, organize the bigger chunks of rubble, and then get out of the way before high command decides they didn’t get enough target practice during the battle.”

“It’s _great_!” Misfire continued, “You get to travel, meet new people, and occasionally you find something _really_ good.”

Arcee looked to Nickel, who seemed to be the only one in the group with her helm on straight.

“This bunch of screw-ups were given the most basic tasks because Megatron wanted them out of his wires.” Nickel said. She pointed at Misfire. “ _This_ one’s shots have taken out more ‘Cons than you or your murderbot buddies combined.” She pointed at Fulcrum. “ _This_ one’s a coward who couldn’t even detonate right.” She pointed at Krok. “ _This_ one blew up a ship after punting a mecha-soccer ball into its engine that _this_ one was piloting.” She then pointed to Crankcase.

“Oooh! Me next!” Spinster said.

“I…” Nickel paused. “Actually, the Deceptepedia didn’t say what _you_ did.”

“He’s old,” Misfire said, with a supportive pat on Spinster’s shoulder-pauldron.

“I think he’s _the_ oldest Decepticon.” Fulcrum said.

Arcee looked over the various pits and scratches on the large mech’s dermal plating along with the layers of paint and realized that if Ratchet was old, this mech was an _antique_.

“Point is we’re not warriors or even well-liked,” Krok said, “so Misfire’s idiot plan to have a ‘guard monster’ was a good one. Of course, it took a lot of training and patience.” 

“And energon treats and belly rubs,” Misfire said.

“Then we found out that the Predacon, uh, _Predaking_ was sentient and could transform,” Fulcrum said, “and that made things _way_ easier.”

“Though it did make the belly rubs weirder,” Misfire added.

“…wait, why are you still giving him belly rubs?” Crankcase asked.

Misfire blinked. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Krok said, “Predaking said him and his Predapals were chasing after Starscream when Darkmount’s defense system triggered. His friends got slagged and he got trapped inside the fortress. His injuries started festering and he went ‘feral’, as he put it.”

“I think he’s still sad about his friends,” Misfire said, “even after we helped him bury them.”

“Grief takes a while to get over.” Crankcase said.

Personally, Arcee hoped Starscream had been killed by the defense turrets, but knowing Starscream, he had the luck of a roachbot.

“Any idea where Starscream got to?” Arcee asked.

“Predaking said he wasn’t sure,” Misfire said, “The last time he saw Starscream, he disappeared down a trap door in the recyc. That’s why he was hanging around there when we showed up.”

“I need to see that trap door,” Arcee said.

“Hold on there a sec, murderbot--” Nickel said.

“It’s _Arcee_ ,” Arcee growled.

“I know. Hence why I’m calling you ‘murderbot’.” Nickel said, “I saw your Deceptipedia profile and you got one of the highest kill counts. How do we know the minute we let you poke your olfactory ridge around, you’re not going to wipe us off the face of Cybertron?”

“I’d say the same about _you_ , minicon,” Arcee grumbled.

Nickel folded her arms. “Only Aftbots consider that an insult. I’m _proud_ to be a Decepticon.” She glowered at her fellow Scavengers, “Unlike _these_ jokers who forget to repaint their damn shields!”

“I wouldn’t go around announcing that,” Arcee said, “Didn’t you hear? Megatron said the ‘Cons were over and fragged off into space. The war’s _over_.”

Nickel’s optics went wide. “W-what?”

“Really?” Krok asked.

“You figured that would’ve made the news.” Fulcrum said.

“You didn’t get Optimus’s broadcast?” Arcee asked.

“ _What_ broadcast?” Crankcase asked.

“It’s been nothing but radio silence since we’ve been on Cybertron.” Fulcrum said, “If it wasn’t for the energon crystals sprouting and the annoying animals, I’d think it was still dead.”

“This is slag.” Nickel said.

“Nickel--” Krok sighed.

 _“No!”_ Nickel snapped. The femme close to Arcee, puffing herself up. She was small but every inch of her stature was full of fury, “I didn’t fall off the tundrite-turnip truck yesterday! You can’t fool me with your Autobot propaganda!”

“I don’t care whether you believe me or not,” Arcee growled, “I’m only here because I thought you were Autobots in need of rescue. Your crew is out of a ship and I don’t know what you’re doing for supplies, but they can’t last forever. You should…” Arcee sighed. She couldn’t believe she was about to say this but Optimus was counting on her to see the mission through, “…come _back_ with me.”

“With _you_? To an _Autobot_ base?” Nickel’s vocalizer went up an octave, almost becoming a squeak.

“Not too fond of Autobot brigs,” Krok said.

“ _Any_ brigs, really.” Crankcase said

Arcee would have been glad to slam them all in the brig—or just Nickel—but they didn’t have enough Autobots to spare for such overseeing. It was difficult enough running a ship with a handful of useless Vehicons and an irate ex-‘Con medic. Five Decepticons would be nigh impossible to monitor and get work done in a timely fashion.

“Listen,” Arcee said, “‘Con or not, I’m grateful for your help after your weird pet mauled the living daylights out of me. You could have easily let me die and take me apart. Some ‘Cons have already defected to our side. Do you know a medic named Knockout?”

“No.” Nickel said.

“Nope,” Misfire said.

“Nuh-huh,” Krok said.

“Nah.” Crankcase said.

“Wait, is that a short mech with the shiny red paint job?” Spinster asked, “Has a smart mouth and likes to race around?”

“You know him?” Fulcrum asked.

“Never heard of him.” Spinster said.

“The _point_ is,” Arcee said through gritted dentae, “I’m willing to grant you amnesty. I have pull with our leader. I’ll make sure you won’t have to spend your time among us as prisoners.”

Nickel was still glaring at her as if her optics could bore a hole into Arcee’s spark but the other Scavengers exchange a look.

“Huddle up!” Krok said.

The Scavengers huddled in the corridor. There was a lot of whispering, profanity, and grumbling before the huddle broke apart and the Scavengers reentered the room.

“We put it to a vote,” Misfire said, “and we decided to show you our basement.”

“ _With_ an escort.” Nickel said and removed a gun the length of her arm from her subspace.

“Oh great. A tag-a-long.” Arcee slowly stood but her legs were still unsteady from reattachment. “Hope you can keep up, minicon.”

“Hope you can aim, Aftbot.” Nickel growled.

“Boy, I can’t wait to hear about what misadventures you wacky, mismatched pair are going to have!” Misfire chuckled.

“Let’s just get this over with.” Arcee sighed.

Nickel held up her gun and squinted at the tall femme. “Just let me figure out which part of your helm I’m going to bust open the minute you do something fishy.”

Arcee was starting to wonder if the rest of her assignment was going to be better or worse than teaming up with an especially energized Miko.

* * *

The recyc’s garbage had been sifted through and placed in more organized piles around the incinerator chute. Crankcase and Krok moved a pile to show the nearly invisible trapdoor. There were already deep gouges in the floor from Predaking scratching at it. Fulcrum easily popped the trapdoor open.

“We popped the lid to see if there was anything of Shouter-in-Chief but…ugh.” Fulcrum shuddered. “It’s _spooky_ down there.”

A ladder descended into the trapdoor’s darkness. Even with Arcee’s headlights, it was a forty-foot drop to a floor covered in unidentifiable sludge and rust.

Arcee looked at Nickel, “Can you make it down the ladder, or do you need me to carry you?”

“What’s that?” Nickel cocked her gun, “Cause I could’ve _sworn_ I just heard an Aftbot say ‘I’d like a shot right between my pretty optics. _Please’_.”

Rather than argue, Arcee decided to begin the climb down. Nickel went after her at a slower pace due to her wheels.

“Have fun, ladies! If you die, I’ll make sure to use your parts wisely!” Krok called down the hole.

It wasn’t until they were at the bottom of the tunnel that Arcee looked at Nickel.

“Wait, did you say ‘ _pretty_ optics’?” Arcee asked.

Nickel scowled. “Don’t let it get to your helm.”

Arcee smirked. “Seems like it’s already gotten to yours.”

“Shut up!” Nickel ordered.

Arcee did shut up but didn’t stop smirking, which irritated Nickel far more than words ever could.

Darkmount’s basement had certainly been lived in, but not by Decepticon or Autobot. The tunnel led to a labyrinth of halls carved from the metal-rock cavern. Giant, ruptured pods were clustered around every corner. The further they moved through the basement, the thicker the sludge and sulfuric stink became.

“Insecticons,” Arcee concluded. She turned up her proximity alarm’s sensitivity. There was movement all around them, though it was scurried and distant. The creatures were yet to detect them. “Looks like we’re a nest.”

“What was your first clue: the egg cases or the slime?” Nickel snorted. She studied the egg pods they had come across, “These are old. These must have been the eggs they laid when they first arrived.”

Arcee deployed a single gun. “Let’s do this quietly. If this is a hive, then that means it’ll mostly be drones working. Let’s keep them in the dark as long as possible.”

Exploring the caverns silently seemed to be the best options, but still proved to be hazardous. There were insecticon drones around every corner, although they were focused on harvesting raw energon crystals rather than dealing with intruders. From what Arcee could tell of the creature’s movement patterns, the Insecticons had made their narrow tunnels while they used the Darkmount’s halls as ‘highways’. The two fembots moved through the winding halls until they came to a massive door. The security door’s panel was torn apart and the wires left dangling as if someone had hacked into it. The door was only slightly open, allowing for a Cybertronian minibot to squeeze through.

“Starscream did this?” Arcee asked.

Nickel shook her helm. “Starscream is high command. He should’ve had the passcode.”

Which meant whatever entered the door wasn’t him.

Nickel easily made her way through the gap. The door was still busted but working in tandem with Arcee, they managed to push it open just enough for the other femme to make her way through.

It was a lab not unlike the ones Shockwave maintained all over Cybertron. The filing cabinets bore the Decepticon shield and had been opened and their contents emptied. The ground was dusty but there were trails of small, organic footprints—enough for a squadron. The only part of the lab that hadn’t been ransacked was a stack of metal containers. They were small by Cybertronian standard, but gigantic compared to a human-sized organic. There was a small number lock on it but going by the container's size, Arcee didn’t need to pry it open to know what was inside.

“Decepticon weapon caches,” Arcee said.

“No. Not ‘Con.” Nickel whispered.

The blue minicon pointed a shaky finger at a symbol stamped on the container’s side. It was too small for Arcee to notice immediately but easy for the far shorter minibot. The symbol was a green insectoid face with large mandibles sitting atop a black box.

“The Black Block Consortia.” Nickel whispered.

Arcee’s processor sped up as it tried to grasp the revelation. She knew the Black Block Consortia was a small branch of the Galactic Council focused on enforcing peacekeeping efforts in protecting threatened organic planets and species…but that was outside of the Bubble. As long as Cybertronians obeyed the Galactic Council’s wishes, the Consortia never took interest in their part of the galaxy. And yet Arcee was standing in a secret Decepticon lab, looking at a weapons cache stashed on a dead planet by the Consortia.

No wonder Optimus had insisted on secrecy.

Arcee scrounged through the lab. She looked under cabinets and pulled away tarps and wall paneling, only to find more hidden weapon caches. Given the scale differences between Cybertronians and most organic species, the space made storage easy for the Consortia. Rather than spend her time scowling at Arcee, Nickel counted the uncovered caches.

“There’s more than a hundred caches here.” Nickel said.

“Enough for an army,” Arcee said.

“No; for an invasion.” The other femme’s faceplace twisted in rage. “The Black Block Consortia wouldn’t leave a cache on a planet unless they planned on taking it. And why _shouldn’t_ they?” She scoffed, “Cybertron’s been dead for longer than most organic lifespans. This place could become another waypoint for refueling their starships and picking off surviving natives.”

But the War didn’t end with extinction and the Autobots returned and reawakened the planet. Now they were sending out a beacon for every Cybertronian to return home. That meant rebuilding their homeworld and simultaneously uncovering every nasty secret the Black Block Consortia had stored on Cybertron. It seemed the reawakening of Cybertron had put some knots in a lot of long-term plans not just for the Galactic Council, but the Black Block Consortia as well.

Nickel checked over the single, still functioning computer console. “The database is scrubbed. No clue if the BBC or Starscream did it.”

“And there’s no sign of what happened to Starscream either.” Arcee sighed.

While Nickel explored the lab for more evidence of Consortia dealings, Arcee tried to piece together a timeline of events.

Sometime after Cybertron had been abandoned, the Black Block Consortia either discovered or went digging around one of Shockwave’s abandoned labs and began using it for weapons storage. During that time, the insecticons must have found another route and began creating their hive in the corridors. Years later, the planet was reawakened, and the Predacon Crisis happened. While fleeing the Predacons, Starscream reactivated Darkmount’s defenses and hid in its basement.

After that point, Arcee’s timeline got fuzzier. As evidenced by his missing arm and leg, Starscream was injured from his encounter with the Predacons. The mech was either (1) immediately discovered and consumed by insecticons, (2) somehow made it to the lab, (3) was discovered by the remaining Black Block Consortia forces on Cybertron and taken hostage, (4) discovered and then slagged, or (5) by sheer stupid luck, Starscream avoided both hazards and found another route of escape out the secret lab.

“We can’t let the weapons stay here.” Arcee said, “We need to clear a path and fast.”

Nickel was fiddling with one of the cache’s number locks, plugging it into her ports. The cache clicked and hissed open, seeping out cold mist.

“Oh, I think I know what can help.” Nickel said and pulled out a heavy artillery gun twice her size.

* * *

The next three hours were spent with Arcee and Nickel shooting insecticons in the tunnels. There were hundreds of insecticons, but they had enough artillery to take on ten armadas of the beasts. The Consortia were robophobic glitches, but they knew how to plan a raid. It was a lot more fun than Arcee ever intended it to be. Nickel even admitted at the end of the carnage that “You don’t shoot too bad for an Aftbot!” to which Arcee responded, “Same to you, Connie!”

If someone was observing them, they would make a very apt comparison to Bumblebee and Knockout’s own underground misadventure, but that would have also gotten said commenter shot in the aft from both femmes.


	21. Miko

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so what's Miko been up to in the past 2-3 years on Earth? 
> 
> (I know only like 2 of you care about her but we're doing this anyway.)

> **The fact that Miko passed tenth grade was so impressive that not even the teacher understood, and Jack was convinced Fowler pulled some strings for her. The reality is that the grade curve was _just_ enough to inch Miko’s D average into a C and thereby passable.**

“Hey, where’s cherry red at?” Miko asked. 

“You mean Knockout?” Bulkhead said, “Lazy aft is holed up in his habsuite. Says he had some bad fuel and can’t move outta berth. I say he’s just skipping out on actual work.” The large Cybertronian glanced at the Vehicons sparring on the other side of the room, “Buttons, good pede work. Steve, try moving your hip joints more. Billy, I’d like to see you aim higher. Eleanor, Hikaru, xXLilDarkPrincessXx, let’s see some more hustle!”

Miko knew Bulkhead was trying positive reinforcement but the Vehicons were still lousy when it came to combat. Still, it was interesting to watch Bulkhead take charge. The robot seemed to always shy away from anything that involved too much heavy thinking, stating that his processor wasn’t up to it. Now he led the Vehicons without hesitation.

Bulkhead looked back at Miko.

“Alright, Miko, you’ve been avoiding it long enough.” He said.

“Okay, _I_ was the one who told Raf and Jack to get piercings.” Miko huffed, “It was a two for one! You don’t pass on that kinda deal!”

“Not _that_. I mean Earth.” Bulkhead said. Miko looked away and the mech sighed gently, “I haven’t seen you in two years and every time I ask you about how things are back home, you change the subject.”

“That’s because it's _boooooring._ ” Miko said, “Earth is still Earth. Humans are still humans. Being a secret agent is where it’s at. Did I show you my super-secret wrist communicator? And my _gun_?” Admittedly owning a gun wasn’t a big deal in America but it was still neat.

“ _Miko_ …”

“Aww, c’mon, Bulk!” Miko groaned, “Don’t use _that_ voice.”

Bulkhead tilted his helm. “What voice?”

“You know! The ‘Dad’ voice! Y’know! The one Optimus uses all the time.” She cleared her throat, “‘Bulkhead, this is your Dad, Optimus Prime, and I’m _very_ disappointed in you.’”

Bulkhead chuckled and removed his morning ration of energon from his subspace. “High school was _that_ bad, huh?”

Miko could only grunt. The main reason she didn’t want to get into it was that there was just _so much_ to explain to a giant alien robot who lacked concepts like cliques, culture shock, and parental expectations. Still, Bulkhead was looking at her with his big ol’ optics—like a metal puppy. It was unfair to keep him in the dark.

“Do Cybertronian have…parents?” Miko asked. It was the best place to start this conversation, along with being a genuine question. In all the time Miko had known the Autobots, they rarely discussed life outside the War.

Bulkhead scratched his helm (a gesture no doubt learned on Earth).

“Uh, no. Not in the _human_ sense of the word.” Bulkhead admitted after a few seconds of thought, “Cybertronians aren’t born to individuals. We’re either forged or cold constructed. If you’re forged, the spark emerges from the Well and it's guided toward cyber-metal, the stuff that makes up our bodies. Once the spark merges, it becomes a class 1 protoform. If you’re cold constructed, your spark enters a pre-built body, and then you’re just sent out to work.”

“Whoa…you can be _born_ an adult?” Miko asked.

“Constructed aren’t really ‘adults’. More like…what you are now.”

“A _young_ adult.” Miko concluded, “So, old enough to be out late but not enough to drink.”

“Basically.” Bulkhead said, “Though Cybertronian doesn’t have terms like ‘child’ or ‘adult’ officially. It was ‘citizen’ and ‘temp’. Freshly construction would be ‘temp’.”

The Cybertronians must have saved tons of time not having to change diapers or watch over toddlers. No wonder they had mastered spaceflight and teleportation way before humans had.

“But what happens to protoforms? Does the Mombot take care of them?” Miko asked.

Bulkhead shook his helm. “Protoforms got sent to a creche. It’s a big building where you lived and got your basic education until the creche-AI matched you to an adult based on your function. It’s like that camp Raf went to.”

“The computer camp?”

“Yeah, exactly! Except there’s no adults.”

“At all? Not even counselors or like, a janitor?”

“Maybe there was in the past but not when I was built. It was all handled by machines. Uh, less intelligent machines. Drones. Anyway, I didn’t deal with that since I was cold constructed. First day of life, I was told my caste, my function, met my mentor, and given a temporary designation in that order.”

Earth wasn’t a utopia, but Miko felt it would be _far_ more messed up if humans could recall their births with such clarity. Then again, human births were far messier than a toaster leaving the assembly line.

“Was your mentor at least _nice_ to you?” Miko asked.

“Nice?” Bulkhead scratched his helm as if Miko had asked him to solve a complicated equation with his own processing power. “Well…I… _huh_. ‘Niceness’ wasn’t really a factor? My mentor was an overseer at a construction company in Gygax. He got into an accident on the job and rather than let him sue the company into oblivion, me and some other bot were constructed as part of his worker’s compensation. All he had to do was teach me his job and he could retire to a cushy habsuite in Crystal City with his live-in freeware medic. Pretty good deal when most bots would get a kick in the aft for all their hard work.”

Miko smirked. “‘Freeware’? Now _that’s_ a term I haven’t heard you use before.”

“Huh? Oh. _Oh_. Uh, pretend I never said that.” Bulkhead sputtered. “I mean, no one knew for sure but there were _rumors_. The High Council would’ve never made anything like that official…I _think_.”

“You’re avoiding the question.” Miko sang out, “What was your not-Dad-mentor like?”

“Him? He was fine. I guess. He never hit me and only yelled most of the time, but he was also in a lot of pain; what with the crushed limbs and malfunctioning joints. Not that it mattered. I only knew him for a year and then he was gone.” He shrugged. “Then the War happened, and I joined the Wreckers.” 

It sounded like Bulkhead’s relationship with his mentor was no different from Miko and her host family in Jasper. Miko had never gotten to know the Jensens, but they hadn’t been very outreaching either. Often Miko felt like they had taken her in as a talking point during Tupperware parties or whatever boring small-town activity Ms. Jensen was indulging in that week.

“After you guys left for Cybertron, things kinda hit the fan.” Miko said, “My _actual_ parents learned what happened in Jasper and flipped out. Guess they weren’t happy about my host parents losing track of me during an emergency evac. Then they found out that I had been running around town and not ‘bettering myself’”—she used air-quotations, restating her mother’s opinion—“and decided I was better off in Tokyo. So, I had to…pack my things and…go.”

“Must’ve been hard.”

‘Hard’ was a gentle word compared to the reality. Miko had pleaded, argued, and begged but there was no changing her parents’ minds. Once they made a decision, it was solid as Cybertronian dermal plating. During the final goodbye, Raf was all tears and Jack was supportive, promising to keep in touch. Miko remained stalwart—enraged, bitter—but refused to cry. Her anger was the only thing that kept her going.

Then June hugged her. The tall woman wrapped her arms around Miko’s skinny shoulders and whispered into her ear, “It’s going to be okay.”

And that broke Miko worse than anything else. Miko sobbed like a baby. Her mascara ran down her face in ugly black streaks but there was no changing what had to be. She wiped her face and got in the taxi that would take her to the airport.

“It wasn’t _that_ bad!” Miko said with a smile to the towering green mech, “After what the ‘Cons did, Jasper was done for. Even with FEMA, it would’ve taken _years_ for them to fix it. I wasn’t the _only_ one leaving. Raf’s family moved back to Rhode Island. Jack was going to New York for Unit:E training at Centurion Academy.”

“So how was Japan?” Bulkhead asked.

There were a lot of words to describe Miko’s return to Japan but the only non-profane one was ‘nightmarish’. Time abroad had made her forget how strict Japanese schools were. She had to dye her hair back to bland black and it could only be a certain length. She could only wear school colors, use specific school bags, and school shoes. If the classes at Jasper High School were boring, then the classes in Tokyo were a whole _new_ level of boredom. Then there were the mandated after-school activities: club participation, sports, and other social gatherings. Miko was all about music club until she realized the club president was tripping on her minimal power and planned hazing those who didn’t fall into line.

Compared to the xenophobic, potentially deadly stuff you got in America, the bullying in Tokyo was pathetic. Hiding her school shoes? Ignoring her during class meetings? It was depressing Miko had to compare such treatment to nearly getting stabbed for looking at a girl’s boyfriend the wrong way.

Also, you had to give a shit for Tokyo bullying to be effective.

The one benefit of Tokyo was that it had _a lot_ more going on than Jasper. There was always a place to go on the weekend, although Miko was always alone. Totally alone and yet always in a crowd, so _that_ hadn’t changed about Japan.

“Meh.” Miko said, “I still graduated. As soon as I got the diploma, I went back to the states and got into Centurion Academy.”

Miko’s parents may have been firm on her staying in Japan, but they couldn’t force her to go to school. It wasn’t like Miko was the first student to abstain from attending class. While uniformed students were heading to class, Miko hopped the various cafes and avoided the house. There was just no point to it. There were too many obligations, group activities with people she hated, and tedious classes for her to bother. She missed Raf and Jack but contact was nigh impossible with them on the other side of the planet. The timezone difference was too wide for them to keep up a steady flow of communication.

Her parents weren’t stupid though. They quickly figured out what Miko was doing. There were fights, of course, but it became a stalemate. They could force to her school, but they couldn’t make her participate or pass classes, just as Miko couldn’t force them to send her back to America.

It went on for a whole semester before Miko caved. She had been avoiding it, wanting to handle things on her own, but she gave in: she called June, and June called Fowler.

Her parents were skeptical about the American, but they recognized an opportunity when Fowler brought up Centurion Academy and Miko getting a GED through their program. They weren’t happy, but they realized there was no way Miko was going to fit in after so many years abroad.

So, they dumped her again.

On her last day in Tokyo, Miko’s heart should have been over the moon with joy…but that old ache returned once more. It was an ache she always tried to ignore, either through loud music or louder conversation. If she kept busy, she wouldn’t have to think about how her parents always tried to get rid of everything they thought was a problem, how she never felt at home in her own country, how none of her so-called ‘friends’ from the music club didn’t bother asking why she stopped attending, or how her cats seemed to be the only living things that wanted her to stay in Japan. 

“Miko…?” Bulkhead asked, “You’re staring--”

“College is pretty cool though!” Miko said, “Well, classes are boring but the secret agent stuff is awesome! We get to investigate all sorts of neat stuff. Mostly its whackos saying there’s aliens or Bigfoot but we do other stuff. We got to do a casino heist cause that was where this offshoot of MECH was hanging out. I even got to wear a cocktail dress and Raf was our guy in the chair. You know about the guy in the chair, right?”

“Not really.”

“We _so_ have to watch _Ocean’s 11_ then.”

“Good idea.” Bulkhead tilted his helm. “So, do you still have host parents to live with?”

“Nah, I’m eighteen. Don’t have to be bothered with any of the kiddie stuff, but I have to live in a _dorm_. Totally sucks having to share a bathroom but it beats paying New York rent.”

Miko could have had a worse selection for dormmates. Verity was a bitch and constantly ate Miko’s snacks, but she knew all the fun parties and activities on campus. Annabelle gave off the ‘homeschooled and spoiled only child’ vibe but she was always nice and willing to share her notes. Mikaela was always preoccupied with her motorcycle and classes, so Miko couldn’t get a vibe on her. (That and Jack was constantly begging Miko to introduce them.)

“I’m just glad I can take afternoon and evening classes. _And_ I don’t have to go full-time.” Miko said, “Meanwhile, Jack’s knocking back classes every day and Raf’s piling on the online stuff.”

Miko had tried to juggle four classes in a semester and it was a nightmare. It was like being in high school all over again. She was glad to withdraw from two.

“There’s no shame in not going at the same pace as everybody else. We all march to the beat of our own cyber-drummer.”

“I know but…I feel like I’m not doing enough, or that I’m going to get left behind.” Miko muttered, “I wish I could just download everything and that’s it, school over forever!” She sighed, “I wish I had a computer brain, like you.”

“Even if you had a computer brain, you still have to take it easy. Remember what happened with the synthetic energon formula? I overloaded my processor. Though that wasn’t the first time. I didn’t learn my glyphs—uh, _Cybertronian_ —until I joined the Wreckers.”

“…really?”

Bulkhead nodded. “Most Cybertronians don’t use the more complicated glyphs. My original function didn’t call for language. See this green mark? That means dig here. See this red mark? That means _don’t_ dig here. That was about it.”

Miko thought of all the difficulties she had learning kanji. Certain kanji were easy to write and memorize while others were a complicated mess of strokes that were nigh impossible to copy _or_ remember. If it wasn’t for furigana, Miko would still be struggling to read even the simplest books intended for her age group.

The gymnasium door irised open and Smokescreen ran in.

“Guys, you _have_ to see what’s on the monitor!” the mech said.

Usually, Bulkhead and Miko ignored the easily excitable mech, but there was something in his body language that made the two follow.

One of the benefits of Unit:E training was that Miko didn’t have to wear the cumbersome NASA-made spacesuit Jack had on his initial Cybertronian excursion. Exo-frames were the name of the game, although they were still trainees so theirs lacked the Assault Weapons Systems that their superiors were given. Still, they let Miko to breathe in Cybertron’s toxic atmosphere and move fast enough to keep up with any Autobot.

It was like Miko was one step closer to becoming a cyborg (which had _always_ been the true goal).

The bridge was crowded with not just Smokescreen and Vehicons but Optimus, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Raf, and Jack. And everyone was looking at the screen.

On said screen was the most bizarre image Miko had seen (which was saying a lot, given her current life). Predaking, in his giant metal dragon form, was flying through the sky. Shipping containers were strapped to his underside and he was carrying a small ship in his claw. Riding on the Predaking’s back was Arcee and five other bots of varying shapes and colors.

“What am I even _looking_ at?” Ratchet murmured.

“It appears Arcee made some friends.” Optimus said.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Miko asked. She engaged her environmental helmet and pumped her first in the air, “Let’s greet the new Autobot recruits!”


	22. Bumblebee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scavengers touchdown on the Nemesis (rename pending) and some secrets are learned. Terrible secrets.

> **Bumblebee had not expected to see a dragon land on the Nemesis’s (rename pending) doorstep this morning but he also hadn’t expected to break up a physical fight amongst the Vehicons about whether Goku or Vegeta is the better husband. No matter the species, fandom is a cursed and infectious thing.**

Optimus was very open-minded when it came to other species but even _he_ wasn’t willing to let Miko greet a creature as ancient, dangerous, and short-tempered as the Predaking. A small welcoming committee ( _without_ humans) gathered outside the ship’s hangar: Bumblebee (of course), Optimus (the observant leader), Ratchet (a medic to oversee potential damage), and Bulkhead (for backup).

Wheeljack was also present but that was less about him being part of the welcoming party and more about the mech wanting to eavesdrop under the guise of fiddling around the hangar.

Predaking landed on the ground, kicking up rust-flecked clouds. Bumblebee and Optimus snapped their battle-masks on, letting Bulkhead and Ratchet deal with the airborne abrasive materials. The giant dragon snarled, lashing his tail but not breathing fire. Just to be on the safe side, Bumblebee kept a gun deployed.

Arcee leapt off the giant beast’s back and approached her fellow Autobots.

“Ease up, guys.” the femme said, “The big guy and his pals are with me.”

Bumblebee took one look at Arcee’s so-called ‘pals’. The tall blue one was stuck upside down in the harness made of old knotted rope that the tan one was trying to disentangle. The giant purple one was stabbing at insects on the ground (or that was what Bumblebee _hoped_ he was doing). For an extra dose of weirdness, a magenta seeker in a retro-fashioned frame was petting Predaking’s snout, insisting that the menacing beast was a ‘good boy while an aqua minibot stood nearby with a spray bottle. Every time Predaking looked ready to snarl, the minibot waved the bottle and the creature cringed.

Bumblebee opened his mouth and then shut it. As a commander, it would be highly inappropriate to say _What the frag is this?_ when greeting newcomers.

“Arcee, where did you find these…people?” Optimus parsed out his words slowly and carefully, like rare minerals intended to be dispersed among a ravenous crowd. 

“They’re ‘Cons,” Arcee said, “and they found _me_.”

“We’re the Scavengers!” the magenta seeker shouted over the low—growl? _purr_?—of Predaking. 

“Just what we need: _more_ weirdoes.” Ratchet grumbled.

“Be nice.” Optimus chided in a whisper.

Arcee gave an abridged version of her misadventure in the southern hemisphere: a mishap at Darkmount, being used as a Predacon chew toy, exposition via Misfire, and an assault on an insecticon hive ten miles underground.

“Since they helped me, I’d argue for amnesty,” Arcee said. She added in a private comm, **[ + these idiots are more danger 2 themselves than anyone else]**

**[RATCHET: Agreed. Misfire’s poor aim has killed more Decepticons than any of us combined.]**

**[how Bad could one Bot’s aim B? B/ ]** Bumblebee asked.

**[OPTIMUS: He Couldn’t Hit The Nemesis If He Was Shooting From Inside It.]**

**[WHEELJACK: we certain this the same mech, chief ? ]**

**[BULKHEAD: THINK MEGS WOULDVE SLAGGED HIM BY NOW OVER]**

It was a legitimate question, given the short-tempered and shortsighted nature of the Decepticon warlord. Or ex-warlord. Whatever Megatron was now, aside from “Unicron-corrupted dark energon-infused abomination flying through space”.

 **[ill ask knockout he’s Been good for con info.]** Bumblebee answered.

“What are they doing? They’re just staring at each other making faces.” Misfire whispered.

“They’re comm’ing,” Nickel said, “probably about us.”

“We are, and we’ve reached an agreement.” Optimus said.

“Please don’t throw us out the airlock.” Fulcrum muttered.

“We’re not in a ship!” Krok said.

Fulcrum straightened himself but didn’t appear less fearful. “S-sorry. Just…habit.”

“It could still happen.” Spinster said, “Airlocks are never where you expect them.”

“You may stay under supervision.” Optimus said, but his optics weren’t on any of the Scavengers. He leveled his gaze with Predaking. The Predacon had been silent so far, remaining in beast mode. “We are more than willing to extend such...conditions to your companion.”

The giant Predacon snorted a plume of smoke crackling with electricity. The creature’s mass shifted and his dermal plating clacked and scraped as he returned to his giant humanoid form. The black and orange mech looked particularly absurd standing among the short and colorful Scavengers, but his faceplate still wore the same look of nobility.

Said nobility was marred by the remainder of the harness ropes hanging on him but _still_.

“Hey, you could’ve done that earlier and saved us a lot of trouble!” Fulcrum said.

“It wouldn’t have been as impressive.” Nickel snorted.

“ _I’ll_ say.” Misfire muttered. The magenta seeker’s optics had a look that could only be described as ‘dreamy’. 

Helm still held high, Predaking approached Optimus. Neither of their optics yielded as they stared each other down.

“Let me make one thing clear, Autobot,” Predaking said, “I may have aided you in the destruction of a mutual foe but that does not make us allies. I have not forgotten how your people hunted mine into extinction at the command of your ‘leaders’ because you were frightened of us. You dare call yourselves ‘Beast Hunters’ when another word would be more fitting: genocide.”

“I have never been one to deny the sins of the past, Predaking,” Optimus said, “What was enacted upon your people by the Cybertronian High Council was a great injustice that has never been corrected. The general public did not learn of your sapience until events had long since past and the High Council had been disposed of. Their propaganda made us believe you were only dangerous vermin.”

“And what amends could be made now?” Predaking scoffed, “My people are dead and all that remains is a graveyard of memories or the bastardizations created by Unicron that did not fall during our last battle.”

“I am not a Predacon, therefore, I cannot decide what you deem a fitting retribution.” Optimus continued, “All I know is that I don’t wish for us to be enemies. Our present goal is to not only rebuild our home but heal the wounds of the past. Cybertron shall be made in a new image.”

“And whose image would _that_ be? That of Alpha Trion, who sat by and watched your world crumble? Or that of Megatron, the cowardly tyrant?”

“There is no image that would properly fit what I intend...” Optimus said and there was silence from the mech. Just as Bumblebee wondered if the former Prime’s vocalizer had malfunctioned, Optimus said, “Are you familiar with the human art of stained glass?”

Predaking blinked. Ratchet gave Optimus his well known _What the pit are you doing?_ look but Optimus did not look away from the Predacon. Even the Scavengers looked lost as to where the conversation could be heading now.

“Stained glass? You mean what some humans have placed in their religious buildings?” Predaking said, “Yes, I’m familiar with it. It shatters like all their feeble structures.” The beast smirked at that. 

“Yes, it does.” Optimus said, “I have watched humans make it on their primitive datanet. It takes hours of labor for them to create a single bit of colored glass. They paint it or color it in their hearths, then arrange it and weld it into something strong. A thousand little pieces of cut and painted glass, held together with steel and wire can make beauty. And even when it is broken, such materials can be reused. The art does not focus on the purity of the materials or its rarity. Humans will use old windows from their homes or alcoholic bottles to make their art. They take what is available and create. We only wish to do the same.”

Predaking’s optics narrowed and Bumblebee’s fingers give a twitch. He watched Optimus, waiting for the first sign of trouble. Instead, the Predaking grumbled a loud _harrumph_.

“That means ‘yes’!” Misfire cheered.

Rather than a firefight that pitted Bumblebee’s sharpshooting against the might and speed of the Predaking, the next few hours were spent moving the marked caches while Optimus conferred with Arcee in the meeting room.

Not that Bumblebee was looking _forward_ to a rematch between Predaking and him now that he had more skills. It’s not like he had daydreamed about taking on a giant monster now that he was a commander and trained for it…but this was _fine_. Playing escort to the Scavengers around the _Nemesis_ was perfectly _fine_ while Bulkhead got to enjoy the tedious task of trying to keep the Vehicons from dropping caches that could potentially explode.

Part of being a commander was doing as the higher-ups ordered, so Bumblebee squashed his uneasiness and slathered on the charm.

“So, if you’re space janitors, why are you called ‘Scavengers’?” Bumblebee asked.

“Part of being a post-battle custodian is also scavenging for parts,” Krok said.

Bumblebee pointed at Predaking. “He a Scavenger too?” he asked.

“Sure!” Misfire said.

“He’s more like Misfire’s pet that kept chewing on things,” Crankcase said.

“And _some_ of those things are Aftbots so keep that on your processor the minute you try something funny with us.” Nickel growled. The femme seemed determined to antagonize Bumblebee every chance she got.

The fact she was so small, and _very easy to punt,_ did little to improve Bumblebee’s mood.

Misfire quickly took Bumblebee aside. “Don’t worry about her.” the Seeker spoke in what could only be described as a ‘stage whisper’, “Nickel’s bark is worse than her bite. If it wasn’t for her, Predaking would still be sick. Underneath that prickly plating is a _big_ _softy_.”

“I can _hear_ you, dumbaft!” Nickel hissed and kicked Misfire’s shins.

Bumblebee decided to ignore the slapstick comedy routine Nickel and Misfire were currently engaging in and moved closer to Predaking.

“What happened, your majesty?” Bumblebee said, “The last time we saw you, you weren’t alone.”

Predaking’s response was a deep growl. Bumblebee would have asked more questions, but the commissary door opened. Knockout stepped out into the corridor, with dull optics and a cube of medical grade.

“What happened to _you_?” Bumblebee said. He hadn’t seen the mech since last night, but Knockout hadn’t looked so awful. The mech looked like he had spent most of the night shift hunched over a waste pail.

“Oh, the usual.” Knockout said with a wave of the talon. He carefully sipped his medical grade. “Of course, I had to _walk_ all the way here to eat. Thanks for that.” His grousing was interrupted when he noticed the Scavengers. “Oh, what fresh pit is _this_?”

“Whoa. Look at that finish!” Misfire began excitedly bouncing on his heel-struts, “Can you show me how you got that shine?”

Knockout flashed a smile and tipped his energon cube at Misfire. “Finally. A bot with _style_.”

“Primus.” Bumblebee muttered, “We found Miko as a bot and he’s a ‘ _Con_.”

“Awesome! Can we keep him?” Miko said.

Bumblebee’s protoform nearly jumped out his plating. He turned around to find Miko sitting on the floor. Cards had already been shuffled and Spinster, Fulcrum, and Crankcase were looking at what they had been dealt.

“When did you get here?” Bumblebee demanded, “Wait, scratch that— _when_ did you start playing cards?”

“About the time Knockout and you started going through your daily ritual of unresolved sexual tension,” Miko said.

“You shouldn’t be doing that!” Bumblebee said.

“Hey, it’s _your_ love life, pal.” Fulcrum said.

“More like _unlife_ at this point.” Knockout snorted.

“You stay out of this!” Bumblebee hissed at the red mech before turning back to Miko, “And you’re not allowed to play cards anymore!”

“But it’s not strip poker this time!” Miko insisted, “Not like you guys have anything to take off.” She paused, “Wait…are you guys technically _naked_ all the time?”

Spinster’s optics widened and the mech slowly looked at Fulcrum. “… _are_ we?”

“I fail to see the issue with that,” Predaking said.

“You shouldn’t be making friends with ‘Cons, Miko!” Bumblebee said. He looked at Fulcrum, “Shouldn’t you be demanding the small organic alien get away from you?”

“The main thesis of the Decepticon cause has always been about the elimination of the caste system and independence from organic colonization.” Krok piped in, “Anything else is extemporaneous High Council propaganda.”

“You’ve _definitely_ been out of the loop, old-timer.” Knockout said.

Krok narrowed his optics at the red mech. “Who are you calling ‘old timer’, stumpy?” he snorted.

Bumblebee had to move quickly to restrain a raging Knockout. He had heard that carriers could be sensitive, but he had expected tears, not unbridled rage. It was like Primus enjoyed his personal misery.

“My claws are still sharp enough to tear out your optics, you monoformer burnout!” Knockout snarled. He was thrashing and kicking so much that Bumblebee had to lift him physically off the ground so he wouldn’t escape, “‘Bee, put me down this instant! I can take him!”

That was only the start of Bumblebee’s long and miserable day.

The Scavengers became one of the worst nuisances to the Autobots, crawling up the list and wedging themselves between Public Nuisance Number One (Starscream) and Scraplet Outbreak. The worst part of it wasn’t that they were destructive or engaging in deliberate sabotage. They were just chaotic bumblers on a heavily damaged ship that was understaffed with a handful of Autobots and mostly incompetent Vehicons. 

Firstly, a single Vehicon caught sight of Predaking, which instigated a bout of mass hysteria among _all_ the Vehicons. Half the Vehicons barricaded themselves in the dormitories and the other half went catatonic from fear. It took the combined aid of the few competent Vehicons (Eleanor Rigby, Steve, Hikaru, and Billy) to defuse the situation.

While that situation was being handled, Spinster mistook Raf for a squirrel and tried to shoot him. (How Spinster knew what a squirrel was, was beyond anyone’s understanding) Miko was still popping up, now accompanied by Jack who wanted to learn the ‘Decepticon side of the War’ from Krok. As a result of this, Ratchet popped up to inform Jack about the ‘Autobot side of the War’ and this spiraled into an argument about ethics and morality between Ratchet and Krok. Bumblebee and Fulcrum worked to separate them because no one wanted to see two geriatric robots get into a fistfight.

As Bumblebee talked Ratchet down from his anger, Nickel continued to antagonize every Autobot on sight and becoming more creatively foul-mouthed as time crawled by. The situation was not helped by Knockout finding her behavior ‘adorable’.

When Optimus called for a midday meeting, Bumblebee felt like Primus finally answered his prayers. It was awkward cramming everyone into the meeting room, but anyone who had to deal with the Scavengers for more than five minutes by themselves would end up committing a few war crimes at the rate things were going.

“Why do _I_ have to be here?” Knockout grunted from the floor. Ratchet had dragged the mech into the meeting room, but Knockout refused to leave the floor, complaining of back pain and nausea.

“Because we have some questions only a former Decepticon can answer.” Ratchet said.

“Just answer our questions as truthfully as possible, Knockout.” Optimus said.

“And quickly,” Miko added. The human was perched on Bulkhead’s shoulder. “I don’t know how long my phone is going to keep those guys distracted.”

“Probably for hours.” Raf said, “Those guys _really_ like Angry Birds.”

“It’ll be fine. Steve is watching them.” Bulkhead said.

“You left a guy named ‘Steve’ in charge?” Jack asked.

“Steve _and_ Buttons!” Bumblebee added.

“Scratch that,” Jack said, “you left a guy named ‘Steve’ and _‘Buttons’_ in charge?”

“They’re our most competent Vehicons!” Bumblebee insisted.

“That’s not a high bar.” Knockout said from the floor, “It’s a miracle when they don’t trip over their own pedes. No idea why Shockwave thought cloning more garbage would lead to better results.” The red mech reached up to the table, trying to grab the medical-grade cube sitting on it.

Bumblebee sighed and pushed it toward the wandering servo. Knockout’s talons wrapped around it and lowered it to the floor.

“Thank you, Bay- _bee_.” Knockout purred.

“Don’t call me that!” Bumblebee insisted, ignoring the snickering coming from his fellow Autobots.

“Knockout,” Optimus said before the conversation could be derailed, “what can you tell us about these Scavengers?”

“They’re losers. Next question.” Knockout said.

“ _Besides_ that.” Arcee said, “According to them, they’re post-battle custodians. I’ve never heard that title before.”

“Because it’s not a _real_. Duh.” Knockout scoffed, “Excluding Nickel and Predaking, those four are the worst Decepticons to ever exist. Krok’s not even a _real_ ‘Con! He was a small time mecha-soccer star who got kicked out for circuit-booster abuse. That afthead’s never _seen_ real combat. Even _I’ve_ done that.” He said the latter with a snort, “That bunch is so low on the roster they don’t have actual profiles in Shockwave’s database. Even _I_ have a profile: pics, measurements, _everything_.”

“Yeah, but you’re vain.” Miko said.

“It’s called having a _presence_. Take some pointers, sister.” Knockout continued, “Megatron didn’t want that bunch around, so he sent them to the edge of the Bubble as ‘clean up’ crew. Keep in mind I wasn’t around when all these decisions were made.”

“Where were you during this time?” Ratchet asked.

“Oh, here and there.” Knockout made a wavy motion with his servo. “Places to go. People to see. It’s the curse of popularity. I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Bumblebee was the only one sitting next to Knockout, looking at the mech lying on the floor. Knockout’s voice had his usual cattiness, but his faceplate said different. He stared into space with the same blankness that always overtook him when he thought of those no longer beside him.

“I don’t buy it.” Bulkhead said, “We’ve seen Megatron tear limbs off his soldiers for taking his name in vain or not groveling enough. If this Misfire chump is so bad at being a ‘Con, how come buckethelm never slagged him?”

“Can’t see the ol’ tyrant being tolerant of failure,” Wheeljack said, “unless your name starts with a ‘Star’ and ends in ‘pain-in-the-aft’.”

“He did put up with Starscream longer than _I_ would have if I was an evil overlord.” Jack said.

“Maybe Misfire knows more than he’s letting on?” Miko suggested, “Like, he’s an idiot by day but then you say the password and _bam_! Killing machine. Like in that movie with the army guy.”

“ _The Manchurian Candidate_?” Raf asked.

“Exactly!” Miko said.

“He _could_ have a secret in him and not know it,” Smokescreen said, “like how Alpha Trion hid the Omega Key inside me.”

“Hate to burst your absolutely _fascinating_ conspiracy theories about Misfire being a really cool deus ex machine, but the reality is a _lot_ more boring.” Knockout managed to crawl onto his knees so he could rest his arms and chin on the table. “The truth is that Misfire’s survival is pure nepotism on the part of Megatron and Starscream.”

There was silence in the meeting room. Then a cacophony of “What?” and “Really?” broke out amongst the group. Ratchet rubbed his temples like a severe processor ache was coming on. Optimus stared into the distance as if he was simultaneously reconfiguring his audials and replaying what he just heard.

“Wait, what’s the big deal?” Raf asked. He looked at Knockout, “Are you saying Misfire is Starscream and Megatron’s…brother?”

“ _Ha!_ ” A wide grin spread across Knockout’s faceplate. “Close, but no cy-gar.”

“Hold on. Just….just _hold on_ a minute!” Ratchet pointed a finger at Knockout, “How do _you_ know this? You’re not part of Decepticon high command.”

Knockout’s optics narrowed. “Who do you think helped with that emergence? ‘Cause it _certainly_ wasn’t Megatron.”

“…say what now?” Jack asked.

“Ewww _…_ ” Smokescreen grumbled. 

“Ha! _Knew_ it!” Wheeljack laughed. He took out a datapad, “Another win for Wheeljack!”

“Gambling is prohibited,” Optimus muttered but his frame was rigid and his words emotionless.

“It’s only gambling if you use real currency.” Wheeljack sang out. 

Arcee slumped in her chair. “I think I’m gonna _purge_.” she groaned, “Just…the _idea_ of those two clanging and then… _urgh._ ” She stuck out her glossa in disgust.

“Clanging? Wait a minute! _Bulkhead_!” Miko looked at the large robot, “You told me your ro-babies come outta the ground!”

“They do. Uh, most of the time.” Bulkhead said.

“And other times they fall out of our valves.” Knockout said, “You know gachapon machines? It’s like that but in our crotches. Twist the knob and _ta da!_ It’s a mech!”

“ _What_?” Raf asked.

“ _No_! Not like that! _Not like that_ _at all_!” Ratchet insisted, “Knockout, as a fellow medical professional, please _do not_ start letting organics associate us with their primitive machines! It’s bad enough they think of their crude tools when it comes to our various forms of reproduction!”

Bumblebee looked at Knockout, who was still locking optics with Jack and mouthing ‘ga-cha-pon’. From the horror on Jack’s face, the human must have already been picturing a Cybertronian with a toy capsule dispenser behind their pelvic armor (which Bumblebee was, admittedly, doing as well). Raf seemed more confused than anything and Miko intrigued (the latter of which was _incredibly_ worrying to Bumblebee).

“That…I can’t even…” Jack mumbled.

“Think it’s bad just _thinking_ about it? Imagine _hearing_ it. Day in, day out. _Bang bang bang bang bang._ ” To emphasize his point, Knockout slapped his talons on the metal table. “And _seeing_ it. Let me tell you, it made meetings a real hazard! They’d get up in each other’s faces and oh Primus, they’re making out. Better clear the area before you see something you wish you hadn’t. I was almost _glad_ when Megatron got into the dark energon. It certainly killed his sex drive. Somewhat.” He shuddered again, “And then I had to deal with the _results_.”

“ _Ay, Dios, no_ _..._ ” Raf mumbled.

“Please don’t--” Miko began.

“Had to jam my servo halfway up Starscream’s valve to get that kid out.” Knockout griped, “On a battlefield. In the _rain_. _Acid_ rain, mind you, so my finish was totally ruined for the rest of the week. Could swear there were claw marks on the side of that gestational factory--”

“ _Do we **really** need to hear any more about Starscream’s robot vagina!?” _Jack yelled.

For ten seconds, there was silence in a meeting room. Then laughter from everyone, except for Jack who was both beet red and mortified by the current turn of events. The young man slumped forward and hid his face in his hands.

“I just…this is just so…so _weird_.” Jack muttered.

“Word of advice, kid: your life is _only_ going to get weirder.” Knockout laid back on the floor, “Can we hurry this up? I’d like to crawl onto my berth so I can pass the frag out.”

“Do you have like, the robo-flu?” Raf asked.

“Sure, let’s go with that.” Knockout grumbled.

“I still can’t believe Starscream had a bitlet,” Bulkhead said, “and he’s such an _idiot_.”

“I like him!” Miko said.

“You only like his paintjob.” Smokescreen said.

“There’s nothing wrong with liking _pink_!” Miko huffed.

“It’s magenta.” Knockout said.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Optimus said, “this only adds further proof that lineage does not mean destiny, and it is why the Functionists hated this reproduction method. It ended up disproving everything they stood for.”

“Optimus, that’s great and all I know you’re making a point about morality,” Ratchet said, “but what are we going to do about Pink Starscream and the Knights of the Moron Table?”

“I vote airlock.” Wheeljack said.

“Seconded.” Arcee said.

“We’re not in space!” Bumblebee groaned.

“I can make a vacuum that’s space _like_.” Wheeljack said with a wide grin. 

“I think they should join our government,” Optimus said.

There was another ten seconds of silence before another uproar of “What?”, “Really?”, “ _Why_?” and “Oh dear god _no_!”. This time Ratchet looked like he was moving on from a severe processor ache and into having a spark attack. 

_“Let me explain,”_ Optimus said over the chorus of confusion, “I’ve been looking over the documents Jack had sent us about constructing a system of government for this new age of Cybertron. I have come to believe that the High Council made a mistake uniting the planet into a single government. While the system made for better large-form planning and colonization, that is no longer a goal. We need to focus on rebuilding and that requires cooperation, not conquest.”

“Oh. You mean like a system of representatives.” Jack’s embarrassment immediately faded once the topic moved away from alien reproduction. “You want to have your own countries, but you also want to have a place of neutrality to hash things out, like the UN.” He paused, “Or…how the UN is _supposed_ to run.”

“Exactly.” Optimus said with a nod, “I think today also proves that the War may have ended, we still lack resources and people. Most of our current workforce are unskilled Vehicons, some of which still refuse to adhere to Autobot command. If our situation remains in its current state, we may be unable to support the dissenters. It would be cruel to release them into the Cybertronian wastes, but it is possible to turn them over to the Predaking as an alternative.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Smokescreen asked, “It’s bad enough you want us to work with ‘ _Cons_ but those Vehicons in the brig are still trained killers! You’re giving him an _army_!”

“I don’t like it either, Smokescreen, but think of the big picture.” Arcee said, “The _Nemesis_ is still having power issues and we have limited space. We might not be able to support those Vehicons for much longer and we don’t have the medical resources to safely put them in stasis-lock.”

“Implying they would go peacefully into ‘lock.” Knockout snorted.

“Knockout, make yourself useful: what’s the count of the Vehicons in the brig?” Ratchet sighed.

Knockout gave a loud sigh but removed his datapad from his subspace. “Let’s see…since the last riot, there’s ten. Nine miners, one soldier.”

“So, nine non-combatants and one rabble-rouser. Not much of an army.” Wheeljack said.

“It only takes one shot to get you.” Smokescreen grumbled. 

“We don’t have many alternatives.” Optimus said, “Either we send them into the wilderness or shoot them in the processor, and I would rather not do either. Without someone at the helm, those remaining Decepticon-leaning Vehicons are angry and without purpose. Left to their own devices, they will splinter off into extremist groups who could reform the Decepticons or something far worse.”

“Like you said, Smoke, all it takes is one shot.” Bumblebee said, “I’m certain there’s more than one budding Megatron among us already.”

“Exactly,” Optimus said, “All it takes is wrong move and then we have to deal with another long standing war. While I don’t believe _all_ future conflicts can be avoided, we must still take caution. I…” He sighed. “I remember a time when the Decepticons were assembled to fight an unjust caste system before the High Council pushed them too far. All they did was fan the flames that were already there. That is why I’m willing to extend the olivinite branch when possible.”

Smokescreen slumped in his chair with a groan. “I _hate_ it when you make sense.”

“It’s not like they’ll be staying here.” Arcee said, “The Scavengers seem to have their own hookup at Darkmount, so we don’t have to worry about space. We could actually use their, uh, ‘skills’ too.”

“The lower decks of the _Nemesis_ do need repairing and clean up.” Bumblebee said, “It's a literal fritz-rats nest down there.”

“That’s a great idea, Bumblebee. So glad you volunteered for it.” Optimus said.

“Wait— _what_? How come _I_ have to do it?” Bumblebee said.

“We need someone to keep an optic on the Scavengers,” Ratchet said, “and everyone else is occupied with their own duties,”

“Also, you suggested it.” Raf said.

Once again, Bumblebee wondered if being a scout had been an advantage over being a commander.

“Fine,” Bumblebee sighed, “I’ll let Steve lead the Vehicons around on patrol for a while. Get some practice in.”

“They’re getting better.” Bulkhead said, “Macross finally hit something yesterday. It was the wrong target, but it’s still an improvement.”

“Now that this is out of the way, we should return to our duties before the dusk shift begins.” Optimus said.

Ratchet looked at the floor. “Someone needs to drag Knockout out. He’s asleep on the floor.”

“I got him.” Bumblebee sighed. He easily lifted Knockout and put him over his shoulder-pauldron.

“…five more space minutes, mentor…” Knockout mumbled into Bumblebee’s shoulder.

“That’s not a real thing.” Bumblebee sighed as he left the meeting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: 
> 
> Krillin is the best DBZ, husband. Don't @ me.


	23. Arcee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features old robots being gay and disgusting with each other because that's the kind of life I live now. 
> 
> Also something something espionage something something Galactic Council

> **Although Arcee spent most of her life in ignorance of most Cybertronian phrases and behavior, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Ratchet and Optimus were clanging. That’s why she didn’t mind staying in Jack’s garage: it was _quiet_.**

As was becoming standard for their meetings, the other left the room while Optimus, Ratchet, and Arcee remained. It seemed no announcement was necessary to mention Arcee’s change in rank—everyone could sense that she had been shouldered with a new responsibility. Or rather an intensification of her old duties. Arcee was always the optimum choice for solo missions. It was what she had been forged for.

“Don’t you think it’s a bad idea for Bumblebee to be fraternizing with a former ‘Con?” Arcee asked, “Knockout could still be a security risk.”

“Bumblebee can handle himself.” Ratchet said, “Arcee, show us the remainder of your report.”

Arcee made sure the meeting room door was locked before removing the clandestine datapad from her subspace. Then she sat across from Ratchet, passing over the non-doctored mission report—the records that wouldn’t be available on the public Autobot server until she had long since returned to the All Spark. For now, the public didn’t need to know about the Decepticon laboratory or the origin of the weapon caches.

“I decided that pictures would serve better than words in this situation,” Arcee said, “so I uploaded some files from my memory bank.”

“Primus,” Ratchet muttered as he scrolled through the images loaded onto the datapad. “The waste-matter on these tunnels is _layered_. These things must have been burrowing into Cybertron for years. But what could they have been eating?”

“Cannibalism.” Optimus concluded, “Without the All Spark, Cybertron’s wildlife has also been dormant.” He looked at Arcee, “What of the lab?”

“Ransacked,” Arcee said, “and from the cache markings, they’re related to the Black Block Consortia. It seems the Galactic Council has been expanding while we’ve been trapped in the Bubble.”

“The Galactic Council didn’t think Cybertron would reawaken.” Ratchet sighed and passed the datapad to Optimus.

“It’s not an unfounded conclusion,” Optimus said, “Without energon or a Well, Cybertronians are functionally extinct.” Ratchet passed the datapad and Optimus looked over it. “Were there any clues as to the Consortia’s goal?”

“Only what I’ve guessed.” Arcee said, “There are some holes in the Scavengers’ story as well: Nickel recognizing the Consortia emblem right away, their interaction with other aliens, and their presence at the far rim of the Bubble.” That part of Misfire’s story had been augmented for the public to the Scavengers encountering generic and incredibly hostile Beasticons.

“Are we sure that even happened?” Ratchet scoffed, “Given Misfire’s…eccentricities, the idea of polychromatic equinoids turning their people into confectionaries is more than farfetched. It’s more likely that the Scavengers were drug running.”

“If that were true, I would think they would come up with a far more plausible story,” Optimus countered, “It would also be shortsighted of us to deny the existence of other alien life. The real question is if these equinoids were organic or mecha. Misfire’s story is too vague to confirm either. I can’t recall any Cybertronians who had an equinoid root or alt mode, but I haven’t been to the rim of the Bubble in some time.”

“Either the equinoids were Cybertronians or the Scavengers acquired a ship that could move beyond the Bubble undetected,” Ratchet said. It went without saying that if the Scavengers had been detected, the Galactic Council would have deployed the Consortia to atomize the wayward Decepticons. That and Tyrest would never miss an opportunity to brag about the Galactic Council’s superior power and surveillance system.

Arcee thought back to the Scavengers’ destroyed ship. She hadn’t explored it thoroughly, but there was something about its destruction that stood out in memory. 

“There were severe radiation burns outside their ship,” Arcee recalled, “I thought that it was battle damage, but passing through the Bubble without proper shielding would do the same.”

Optimus drummed his fingers on the table, considering the new information. “How does one even get _past_ the Bubble?” he asked.

For the answer, Arcee and Optimus looked at Ratchet. He was the oldest of them and comprehended far more about the Bubble than they did.

“The ‘walls’ of the Bubble are made of highly dense radiation.” Ratchet said, “It’s brutal, even well-built starships. Without protection, an organic would be cooked alive and mechanoid sparks would collapse in their chamber. To pass through the Bubble without dying, you either go through a Council approved gateway point or tear a hole.”

“Would a spacebridge work?” Arcee asked.

Ratchet shook his helm. “The Bubble is made of the same irradiated atoms as a spacebridge. The difference is that the Bubble ‘walls’ are dense enough to be fatal. I’m no physicist but I suspect if you attempted to open a spacebridge within close proximity of the Bubble, it could be catastrophic. A black hole could open up, or your ship could be placed in the ‘shadow zone’.”

“Yet another thing to worry about.” Optimus sighed. He looked at Arcee, “What information could you get out of Nickel?”

“Jack and slag.” Arcee scoffed, “Unlike her fellow Scavengers, Nickel’s taken the ‘Con label to fuel pump. Unless a ‘Con talks to her, we’re not going to learn anything useful.”

Thinking about the small, mouthy femme just made Arcee irritable. She’d rather be scraping accumulated dirt out of her tires after a long drive through Nevada’s dry and dusty canyons.

“More importantly, I think our beacon is being jammed.” Arcee continued, “The Scavengers said they didn’t pick up any messages from Cybertron while out in space, nor did they detect anything at Darkmount. The problem can’t be on our end: we’ve been boosting our signal as strong as the _Nemesis_ can currently handle. I think the Consortia tampered with the satellite on Moonbase Two.”

“There hasn’t been any reported activity on Moonbase Two,” Optimus said, “but if the Consortia is acting at the behest of the Council, they would be working hard to conceal their actions. I would not put it past them to interfere as much as possible to preventing Cybertron’s rebuilding.”

Arcee didn’t like being so far from the _Nemesis_ but they had little alternative. She was the head (well, the _only_ member) of Spec-Ops and that meant she needed to be at the scene.

“When’s the next meeting with the Council?” Arcee asked.

“We have six more Earth days.” Optimus said, “I doubt it will be long since my message is rather succinct.”

“Brevity over wit, I see.” Ratchet said.

“Does our official response start with ‘frag’ and end with ‘you’?” Arcee asked.

“That was my original outline, but I opted for something more eloquent.” Optimus chuckled, “Now I’m up to ‘frag you and frag off _’_. I’m still not quite sure if organic species can ‘frag off’ but I’m willing to listen to constructive criticism.”

“You know the Council will compare you to a dictator for making this choice for all of Cybertron, right?” Ratchet said.

“Oh, I’m _very_ _aware_ of the comparison, but I no longer care.” Optimus said, “The Council can play all the political games they want, but this is the biggest issue with politics: it’s not war. It’s a game—a game of patience and waiting, and unlike organics, we can afford to wait. _They_ can’t.”

That was the one true advantage cybernetic life had over organic. Arcee didn’t like to think about how Jack and Miko would never get to see Arcee’s apprentices grow up, but Arcee would certainly meet their descendants.

“What about the weapons cache?” Ratchet asked, “I doubt that was the only one.”

“We’ll have to check the remainder of Shockwave’s abandoned labs.” Optimus said, “In the meantime, we will analyze the weapons and keep them in an undisclosed location.”

Arcee nodded. It would be easy to assign a Vehicon to scout out a secure area.

“The last matter is the location of Starscream.” Arcee said, “There’s no telling where he, or Shockwave, could be. While it’s unlikely the Consortia have a hold of him, I also don’t have evidence to the contrary; or that he wasn’t consumed by an Insecticon.”

Even if all odds pointed toward death, Arcee had a feeling Starscream was still slinking in the shadows of Cybertron. The real question was what they would do with him once they found him and what he was up to.

Ratchet looked to Optimus. “What is our protocol if the Consortia has Starscream? That mech knows secrets I’m certain the Council would kill for.”

“Given Starscream’s history of treachery and prison breaks,” Optimus said, “the Consortia would likely use a cortical psychic patch to access what they can and then eliminate him.”

Arcee wouldn’t be sad to see Starscream melted down and reformatted into something useful, like a public latrine or a broom. Still, she had another concern.

“Starscream is Misfire’s carrier,” she said, “if he’s in trouble, the Scavengers may attempt a rescue.”

“I bet my servos that Starscream has the carrier protocols of an especially ravenous Earth guinea pig,” Ratchet said.

“I have zero interest in earning the _direct_ ire of the Galactic Council rescuing a mech who has murdered many of our allies,” Optimus said, “nor am I willing to dedicate resources toward a hazardous rescue mission with no benefit to our cause. If the Scavengers attempt a rescue, we will disavow all knowledge.”

That was something Arcee hadn’t expected of Optimus. Even as Orion Pax, Optimus had seemed soft sparked—the type of mech who took in foundlings and was willing to reunite them with their mentors, no matter what side of the War they were on. He had shown mercy to Starscream back on Earth, or had that just been part of a plan to extract information? Now the War was over, and the Autobots could pump Knockout or the Vehicons for information. Starscream’s intel was no longer required.

“That concludes my report,” Arcee said.

Optimus nodded and returned the clandestine datapad to Arcee, which was then locked away in her subspace until it could be placed in a more secure location.

“Then it is time to tell you of decisions made in your absence.” Optimus said, “I’ve spoken to Agent Fowler and he said that Earth’s American government is willing to work alongside us for the terms of our agreement.”

“Don’t tell me you’re giving them the weaponry they asked for?” Arcee muttered.

“Oh, absolutely _not._ ” Optimus said, “Not only would that violate the Galactic Council’s other edicts and invite more trouble onto our plate, but the humans have enough problems as is. Earth has other materials that are of us to them and us. What they do with it is their decision.”

That still made Arcee uneasy. She had seen firsthand how creative humans were. Cybertronians could give them a protoform toy and humans would find a way to kill each other with it. (Then again, Cybertronians had done the same)

“Who do we have for the Earth ambassador?” Arcee asked.

“June Darby is our candidate, along with some other humans from Unit:E.” Ratchet said.

“Then we have June representing American Earth, Optimus representing Autobot Cybertron, and Predaking representing the Predacon Cybertron,” Arcee said.

“Ratchet and I were speaking about that matter and came to a conclusion,” Optimus said.

“We believe you and Bumblebee should represent the Autobots, not us.” Ratchet said.

“… _what_?” Arcee said. She stared at both mechs, “I don’t have experience with diplomacy! _Bumblebee_ is the people person!”

“Exactly.” Optimus said, “You two need to learn to work together.”

Arcee wondered what ridiculous event would take place next. First, she was put on Optimus’s inner consul and now she would actively be helping with the rebuilding of their home. What next: become Prime?

“Arcee…” Ratchet’s voice was gentle. He reached across the table and touched her servo, “Even with our lifespans, we can’t ignore that Optimus and I are getting older. We’re from a different generation, a generation that knew only war and enslavement. Many of us won’t be able to consider crafting a future without those conflicts hanging over us.”

“The next generation of Cybertronians must continue our work.” Optimus said, “Due to the War’s high casualties and militaristic setup, they haven’t been given that opportunity. Ideally, once the population of our founding city becomes large enough, we can host proper elections, and Ratchet and I will retire completely.”

“Sounds like you two have been planning this for a while,” Arcee said.

“I suppose it has always been a dream of mine.” Optimus said, “I’ve always been enamored of human sports. I would love to spend my retirement learning how to incorporate them into Cybertronian culture.”

“And I’ll be watching from the stands with the first aid kid.” Ratchet grunted.

“You _always_ say that.” Optimus said, smiling.

“Ugh, you two are _disgusting_.” Arcee grumbled, “Will you tell me if you’re back together or not? I can’t take the weird _tension_ from both you two _and_ Bumblebee and Knockout.”

“Oh. Well. You know.” Optimus suddenly couldn’t look Ratchet in the faceplate. His optics were dilated widely. “It’s, uh…you see. Things are…you know. They happen and…”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.” Ratchet said, with a smile. He seemed to enjoy how quickly the former Prime could go from well-spoken to a stammering idiot when it came to their relationship.

Arcee couldn’t see Ratchet’s servos but she had a feeling the two were holding servos under the table. It was something they had always done during long meetings. Perceptor would be talking on and on about a new discovery made in the lab with Brainstorm and Orion and Ratchet would be gazing at each other like they were the only bots left in their half of the universe. 

“Like I said,” Arcee sighed, “absolutely disgusting.”


	24. Knockout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knockout goes back on medical duty. That's it. Nothing else life changing or emotionally upsetting happens in this chapter. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: medical horror. questionable decepticon morals, abuse of prisoners of war up until "Knockout’s optics shuttered open."

> **Starscream insisted he only called Knockout for professional reasons, but the truth is that he needed someone to bitch at about Megatron, paperwork, and binge-watching The Bolt and the Beautiful. Yeah, the show’s a few centuries old but what else are you supposed to watch when the last Cybertronian studio blew up during the Siege of Thetacon?**

“Gods, what a miserable planet!” Knockout swore.

“Hey, you were the one that wanted to be more ‘out in the field’.” said the surveillance monitor.

Knockout fixed the monitor with a scowl. His drive through the volcanic countryside had been ended early by a sudden eruption of sulfur and rocks in his driving path. The eruption was still occurring outside the entrance, pelting the metal sides with yellow-orange lava. The base was sealed against most chemicals but that wouldn’t keep it safe from heat damage or negate the stench that seeped into every crevice.

While lava splattered only inches away from Knockout’s frame, he went through the standard decontamination process—sprayed down with sealants and neutralizers so he wouldn’t track acid all through the base. It would be a week until the miserable, itchy coating would peel off and he could repaint. After the spraying, the doors gave a friendly chime and opened. Knockout stomped his way to the central hub with drips and drops of pH neutralizer trailing him.

“That’s it!” Knockout declared, “I’m requesting a transfer to a planet that’s not a molten slag-hole!”

Breakdown rolled his optics. The mech was supposed to be watching the surveillance cameras but he had been spending more time on his aft; snacking from the extraneous rations and watching old Cybertronian broadcasts. A month into his arrival Knockout had tried to keep the central hub organized but surrendered to the hopeless clutter. Whatever architectural genius decided to mash together the surveillance area, the medical bay, and the commissary in the hopes of saving money regarding construction was a far worse cheapskate than Swindle could ever be.

“What’s wrong, Knocky?” Breakdown snickered, “Can’t handle doing _actual_ work?”

“Says you.” Knockout went to the chemical sink and began washing his optics. The decontamination spray always misted them over, fogging his vision to low definition. “Why are we even bothering with this outpost? The Autobots are only sending drones and they can’t do as much damage as the next eruption. Meanwhile, we’ve only got dregs here and not enough energon to justify keeping them alive!” 

“We can hear you…” a mech coughed, who was strapped to a medical berth.

“You act like I care.” Knockout said and discarded his used towel on the injured mech’s face. The stupid glitch had stood too close to an eruption and a winning combo of molten lava and sulfur had eaten through his helm. The injury made him delirious and aggressive, so Knockout had no choice but to strap the idiot until his fuel pump gave out.

“Mech, this is a kickback job.” Breakdown spun around in his chair and faced Knockout. “Even the Autobutts have eased up on the shelling. They used to do it around the chronometer. Now it’s only twice a cycle.”

“Because they’re likely doing the smart thing and pulling out.” Knockout scoffed.

Breakdown shrugged. “Hey, I don’t make the calls. I just follow ‘em.”

Knockout rolled his optics. Only mechs with low processor power like Breakdown cared about following commands; never wondering the purpose behind them. If Shockwave was in charge, this outpost would be emptied and they would have left for another planet to harvest energon from, but _noooo_. Knockout had to be under _Soundwave’s_ command. Tall, dark, and creepy rarely paid attention to the mecha under his command; treating them no better than his cluster of symbiotes.

It could be worse though. He could be under _Starscream’s_ command, where everyone _not_ named Starscream was expendable. The seeker would be the type of commander to send his mecha to a planet where it rained diamonds, or everything was incredibly combustible. Or acidic. Or it constantly rained acidic, incredibly combustible diamonds.

Sometimes, Knockout _really_ hated being medic. Autobot or Decepticon, medics got passed around bases like freeware at a high caste party. Hook was dead, Junkion was in the Kuiper belt overseeing the hazardous harvesting of energon via captured asteroids, Remedy was stasis locked in Shockwave’s lab, Flatline went neutral, and no one had seen Scalpel since the cloning incident on Europa. That left Knockout, Conduit, and Quickfire as the only medics within the inner Solar System. 

“Seriously? You’re _moping_ over a little bit of acid?” Breakdown said.

The comment brought Knockout out of his spiraling thoughts. He glared at the other mech. “It’s not my fault some of us care about our appearance!” He huffed. He went over to the refrigeration containers and looked over the part storage. “Breakdown, make yourself useful for once. We’re running low on t-cogs.”

“We just harvested some a few cycles ago!”

“Hey, you love this damn planet so much? Well, its atmosphere hates us and our parts. Unless you want grounded or slow soldiers, you’ll get some fresh ones.”

“Alright, alright. No need to glitch about it.” With a labored grunt, Breakdown got out the swivel chair, removed the carving axe from his subspace, and headed for the stairs leading into the subterranean prison.

With that out of the way, Knockout had to ignore the miserable state of his finish and attend to his duties—not that there was much to be done. The squad Breakdown had sent on patrol were either blasted into insanity from the bombing or the environment--t-cog burnout, memory core leak, fuel pump calcification, tank punctures, or cracked cranial chambers. Most of Knockout’s time was spent judging which mechs were worth expending the few pain patches they had on and which mechs were better off scrapped.

 **[Transmission for Medic Knockout.]** the comm came from the base’s server.

“Can’t you see I’m a little preoccupied here?” Knockout said. He was sawing off the leg of a recently de-pigmented Constructicon as he tried to get at the motor relay in her hip. (You could never have enough motor relays.) 

**[I cannot. I am only a category 1 AI with no visual information processing nodes.]**

Knockout was really starting to hate machines, especially ones with a programmed sense of ‘humor’. “Who is it from?”

 **[Transmission from Second-in-Command and His Glorious Majesty, Future Ruler Starscream.]** the server said.

“Sounds like Screamer’s been messing with his ID tags again.” Knockout snorted, “Put it up on the screen.”

Starscream’s face popped up on the video screen that made up the left wall of the base’s long and narrow hub. His obnoxious faceplate filled every corner, which meant he was either using a datapad camera like a shareware cambot or he had roped an idiot Vehicon into this, and it was too close.

“Knockout! Report.” Starscream demanded. 

“Last time I checked; I don’t report to you.” Knockout said. He pulled away the disassembled leg and seized out the motor relay, depositing the part in a storage container. Then he started to go after the equilibrium chips.

“You do when Soundwave is otherwise preoccupied, so how about a little respect?” Starscream sneered.

“Rather hard for me to give respect to the same bot whose valve I had my servo jammed into. Say, how is--”

 _“Shut up!”_ Starscream hissed, “Why must you _always_ bring that up?”

“Because it’s _you_ , and because it’s _hilarious_.” Knockout found most of the equilibrium chips were burnt out (typical Constructicon). “ _Anyway_ , what do you want?”

Starscream’s giant face was now sulking. The camera wobbled and pulled back, showing the seeker sitting on one of the many thrones Megatron had at the current outpost. Considering how Starscream seemed more pouty than usual, that meant he had likely asked something of Megatron and been rebuffed. Whether that was funding for an idiotic experiment, allocating more budget toward expensive wing polish, a failed coup, a failed assassination, or just clanging, Knockout wasn’t sure. Knowing Starscream, it could be all of the above.

“ _I’m_ making a command decision to close up shop at Outpost Lada Terra,” Starscream said, “The recent energon reports came in and it’s not worth it given the number of injuries and soldiers.”

“Oh, and I was _so_ getting attached to this hunk of sulfur that calls itself a planet.” Knockout said, “Why are you calling _me_ about this? Don’t tell me you had another ‘surprise’?”

_“I did not, you piece of neon-shaded rust!”_

“Touchy, touchy…”

There was a clatter from the other end of the central hub. Breakdown walked over to the medical berths, dragging three bleeding mechs behind him. He dropped them onto the medical berth nearest to him like they were a pile of quantum-poker chips.

“There. Three _intact_ t-cogs.” Breakdown said, “I didn’t even carve ‘em up too bad so you might get something else out of it.”

“This is supposed to be a sterile area!” Knockout said, “And I wanted them already dead!”

“They’ll be dead in a bit.” Breakdown said.

“Kill me…” whimpered an Autobot prisoner, “…if you have any mercy in your spark, you’ll send me back to the loving arms of Primus…”

Knockout whacked the begging Autobot’s helm with his wrench. “Shut up, you!”

“Well, _you_ haven’t changed since school.” Starscream sighed.

Breakdown looked at the screen. “Oh, hey, Starscream. What’re you doing up there?”

“Oh, I just decided to call in for a slumber party! Order some pizza, pull out the board games… _What do you_ think _I’m doing, you orange-faced goon?!_ ” Starscream snarled, “I’m informing you that you’re to vacate this outpost and relocate to another planet! Called…” The mech looked down at his servo, squinting at it. “…Yarth? Am I saying this right? Ee-arth?”

“Are you reading off your servo?” Knockout asked.

“ _Very_ professional of you, Screamer.” Breakdown muttered.

Starscream immediately put down his servo. “I am still the Second in Command of the Decepticon army and Lieutenant Energon Seeker of Cybertron! You two will show me the proper respect deserved of someone in my position!”

“ _Starscream_! _Why_ are _you_ sitting on _my_ throne?”

A hulking, pointy shadow fell over Starscream, which could only belong to one person in the entire Decepticon army. The seeker’s optics went as wide as dinner plates.

“Oh. Uh.” Starscream chuckled nervously but did not immediately move off the throne, “Keeping it…warm?”

“Somehow, I _doubt_ that…” Megatron growled. Thunderous footsteps moved closer to Starscream. The camera tipped over as the Vehicon holding it had fled.

“No, wait! _I can explain!_ ” Starscream pleaded.

“End transmission.” Knockout ordered before he had to witness yet another shouting match, beating, or violent clanging.

“I’m not orange.” Breakdown muttered, “My faceplate is saffron.” He looked at Knockout, “You can tell this is saffron paint, right?”

“ _Obviously_ , but Screamer has never been for color coordination.” Knockout said, “He only chooses the tackiest frames. You should’ve seen his original frame. Absolute color coordination disaster. Mark my glyphs, he’ll go after the next fad.”

“Like ‘stealthing’?” Breakdown cringed, “All those points and so… _skinny_. One shot and you’d break in half.”

“Nothing to grab onto either.” Knockout sighed. One of the Autobot prisoners had stopped breathing so Knockout hefted his frame onto a different berth. The red mech started looking through his tools to decide which one would be best for prying open the chassis. “I won’t lie and say I don’t prefer a mech with more mass on the protoform.”

“Gotta type, huh?” Breakdown said. He walked to the other side of the medical berth Knockout stood at. “I _just_ so happen to be the massive mech on the whole planet.”

“Oh yeah, ‘cause I’ve got such a _selection_.” Knockout snorted.

He wouldn’t deny the idea was tempting though. He hadn’t enjoyed a good clang since arriving at the outpost. The prisoners and soldiers were too diseased or depressed to clang, so it had just been Knockout and his imagination, but you could only go so far with that. 

“This is our last cycle at this place.” Breakdown leaned in close. “And I got some high grade in my habsuite.” A large servo dance along Knockout’s chassis.

“You’re getting energon on me.” Knockout muttered.

Breakdown smirked. “I’m not hearing ‘no’, lil’ bot.”

“Would…you two… _please_ frag…already?” the Autobot on the berth wheezed, “Or put me out of my misery…so I don’t have to hear my captors…fragging _flirt_?”

“ _Hey_! You’re supposed to be _dead_!” Breakdown brought down his massive fist on the Autobot’s helm with a resounding _crunch._ Crushed processor bits and energon splattered on the wall, hitting both Knockout and Breakdown.

“Well, _now_ we both need a complete wash.” Knockout sighed.

“Together?” Breakdown suggested.

“ _Fiiiiine_.” Knockout conceded. He grabbed the towel from the face on the (now dead) Decepticon soldier he had tossed it on and wiped as much as the splatter as possible. “It’d be a waste of hot solvent otherwise.”

Breakdown must have considered it a great victory because the idiot wouldn’t stop grinning even after the shower.

* * *

Knockout’s optics shuttered open. He rolled over and bumped against the larger frame lying next to him. He yawned and curled closer to the warmth, hearing the gentle purr of an engine in neutral. Knockout shut his optics, resting his helm against the back of the other frame.

“Breakdown…” Knockout mumbled, “…do you remember Venus?”

“Say what?”

That voice was definitely _not_ Breakdown’s. Knockout swore and scrambled away from the other frame in his berth. He would have fallen off had a yellow and black servo not grabbed him.

“Whoa, slow down!” Bumblebee said, “Last thing I want is for you to fall while you’re, uh, making a protoform.”

Oh right. Knockout was no longer stationed on that miserable outpost on Venus, carving up the dead and dying and drinking sludge that forced Knockout to turn off his taste receptors. He was on the _Nemesis_ (rename pending), which was now under Autobot control, and slag, _he_ was going to become an Autobot since the Decepticons were no more.

And he was compiling.

 _And_ Breakdown was dead, that handsome son of a glitch.

“You alright?” Bumblebee asked, “Wait, did you call me--”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Knockout asked, “You have your own habsuite!”

“Yeah, but I had to haul your heavy aft out the meeting room,” Bumblebee said, “and I was too tired to go all the way back to my place, so I just decided to…” He rubbed the back of his helm like an embarrassed sparkling, “…recharge here. For a bit.”

“Uh huh.” Knockout grunted.

Knockout already had a lot on his ration plate; he didn’t want to also deal with dreams about the past and Breakdown. He didn’t have access to recharge drugs and asking Ratchet for permission was out of the question. The old mech would want Knockout to deal with his issues in a ‘healthy emotional manner’ or some other quackery.

“You don’t look alright.” Bumblebee said, Need me to comm Ratchet?”

“No, I need to know why you even care.” Knockout growled.

Bumblebee frowned. “I care about everyone under my command--”

“Don’t feed me that slag!” Knockout growled, “You didn’t even trust to let me out the brig or walk around without a chip but the _astrosecond_ you find out I’m compiling, you start acting like my ‘conjugate’!”

“Conjunx--” Bumblebee said.

“Whatever you call it! You’re only doing this because you feel sorry for me! Am I your ‘good deed’ for the year and then once the kid is out, you’re off to ‘help’ some other sap?”

Bumblebee’s optics narrowed. “I don’t think that at all--”

 _“Then what are we?”_ Knockout yelled. His vents sputtered and oh frag, there was coolant in his optics. He bit his glossa, pushing through the tears. If there was one lesson he took to fuel-pump in school, it was that crying only weakened an argument. “What is this… _thing_ between us?”

“I don’t _know_!” Bumblebee admitted, “I…care about you? A lot? Can I be honest? I’ve never actually done…’this’.” The mech gestured to Knockout.

“You mean you’re a virgin? I can tell.”

“Would you knock it off with the ‘virgin’ thing?” Bumblebee huffed, “I mean, with the war and everything…I just don’t…” He sighed, “I never had _time_ to think about things like this.”

“And I have?” Knockout flopped onto his berth. His back was starting to hurt, and it was too late for this type of conversation. Or early. Whatever time it was. “Do me a favor and sort your slag out before you go crawling into my berth. I have enough on my processor as is.”

Bumblebee opened his mouth and then closed it, reconsidering what he was going to say. Knockout shuttered his optics and pretended to recharge so the yellow mech could make a dignified exit from the habsuite.

* * *

Bumblebee spent the morning shift avoiding him, but Knockout expected that. Yes, he did miss having someone to talk to during morning refuel but he’s dealt with worse, like walking through an acid storm on foot or suffering a metal mite infestation. He can tolerate a little loneliness. He just doesn’t stay in the commissary as long. No big deal.

Knockout had hoped entering the medbay early would allow for some privacy, but Ratchet was already there. The old mech sat behind his desk and was sifting through another box of datapads.

“Primus!” Knockout said, “Don’t you _ever_ recharge?”

“I could very well say the same to you.” Ratchet said and tossed another datapad into a box marked ‘recyc’. “Do you know that you have datapads dating back to the Age of Wrath? I doubt _any_ of these are still accurate.”

“They’re good paperweights.” Knockout perched on the edge of Ratchet’s desk. “I thought you and Big O would still be cuddling.”

“I don’t know how Decepticons ran things, but Autobots keep their personal and professional lives divided.”

“Oh please. You bunch are like _The Waltons._ ”

Ratchet paused and then smirked. “Been enjoying some good ol’ human programming, huh? Do you also watch _As The Kitchen Sinks?_ ”

“I have a lot of downtime!” Knockout huffed, “When Cybertron starts broadcasting again, then I’ll find something. Right now, only the organics are making something worthwhile. It’s not like the Decepticon server had movies on it.”

“The Autobots archived many Cybertronian films and television before the destruction of Iacon,” Ratchet said, “Once you become an Autobot, you’ll gain access to it.”

“Right. I’ll put that on my ‘to do’ list along with the other 217 things.”

“Becoming an Autobot should be your primary concern. Along with… _other_ matters.” Ratchet’s optics drifted toward Knockout’s abdomen.

Knockout got off the desk and tilted his helm like he was receiving a comm. “What’s that, Smokescreen? You need help recalibrating the gravitational stabilizer and I’m the only one who can do it? I’ll be on my way--” He started walking toward the door.

Ratchet grabbed Knockout’s shoulder pauldron and dragged him back inside the medical bay.

“I can tell the difference between a fake comm and a real comm!” Ratchet said.

No matter how much Knockout stated that he was feeling fine, Ratchet refused to hear it. What made it worse was that Ratchet insisted on an internal scan rather than the standard transdermal ultrasound due to Knockout’s very mild, totally-not-a-big-deal nausea and vomiting.

“Why is it ‘Bots jump at the _littlest_ thing?” Knockout groaned, “I ran around too much in the tunnels with the insecticons, my tank didn’t like it. End of file.”

“Would you rather I suss out a potential infection now or wait until your spike falls off from mites? Because I’ve seen it happen.”

“You’re bluffing.” Knockout said but laid on the examination berth. He hated internal exams, but he hated Ratchet’s nagging even more.

“For someone who believes nothing is wrong, you sure want to avoid your…” Ratchet looked at the scanner screen and frowned slightly. “Hm.”

“What?” Ratchet was still frowning at his scanner. Knockout grumbled and forced himself to sit up. “What’s going on? You said ‘Hm’. That’s medic code for ‘bad’!”

“It’s not ‘bad’. Its…unexpected.” Ratchet tilted his helm, “Knockout, how often have Bumblebee and you been interfacing?”

Knockout’s jaw unhinged. “Are you _kidding_ me with this? What happened to Autobots _not_ prying into each other’s personal lives?”

“I only ask because you have considerable fluid build-up in your gestational factory aside from regular cyber matter,” Ratchet said, “That mean you’re creating a protoform of considerable size, or you’ve had unprotected penetrative interface recently, which, by the way, you two _shouldn’t_ be doing when you’re not even an _Autobot_ yet. I know the hormones must make it tempting to--”

“I’m not doing anything with Bumblebee!” Knockout huffed, “We’re not even – it’s none of your--” The familiar pressure was building in his processor again. The red mech sighed, “Not that it’s _any of your business_ but we haven’t done _anything_.”

“Good to know, but that means we have a problem.” Ratchet said. Knockout had expected a bit more annoyance from Ratchet while talking about the relationship, but the medical mech moved on, “Your current frame is _way_ too small to accommodate the protoform. I had thought the protoform would be a slim, medic caste like you but this is larger. A war-frame or heavy-duty transport.” He raised an optical ridge. “Like the sire, I assume.”

It figured with Knockout’s luck that the kid was going to be a four-wheeler.

“What’s your point?” Knockout asked, “You want me to drink _more_ medical grade? Because I can only endure so much torture.”

“I need you to understand that if you do this without early inducing, things could get complicated. Mixed frame type emergences are notoriously difficult. Odds are that the protoform could get _wedged_ inside you. We’d have to perform surgery.”

No wonder Cybertronians had gone away from this method of reproduction. It was irritating as pit.

“There’s also the issue of concealment.” Ratchet added, “Your frame is small. I had hoped the additional mass you were packing on would conceal you’re carrying. Now that we know the protoform frame is large, that’s going to be nigh impossible. You’re going to put on more weight during phase 2 and phase 3 may be downright crippling. I’ll be amazed if you won’t have difficulty walking. You may have an early emergence just from strain alone.”

“So, I’m liable to pop the kid out at random. Great.” Knockout sighed, “ _Anymore_ good news?”

“Your protoform is healthy,” Ratchet said and for the first time Knockout had seen him, the old had a genuine smile on his faceplate. “The cyber matter is layering efficiently, and the new spark is stable. I have a feeling it was floating there for a while before the actual protoform building began. Were you experiencing any sparkburn or chassis pain before you know you were compiling?”

Knockout shrugged. Random pains were the usual for overworked Decepticons.

“It’s not uncommon for a spark to split off early,” Ratchet said, “and remain without a program triggering your forge. Without that signal, it would have likely returned to your spark.”

“And said programming is clanging. I know _that_ much.”

“Not necessarily. It’s possible to send a false signal to the forge and trick it into reproduction. It’s how symbiotes are created and how the High Council harvested cyber matter once the mines were depleted.” Ratchet stood and gestured to the desk. “Aside from that, congratulations: you’re back on duty. Just try not to overdo it and you should be fine.”

“What’s there for me to do? There’s actually _less_ injuries.” Knockout scoffed and wiped the scanner gel off.

“You’d _think_ that.” Ratchet sighed. He unlocked and opened the medbay door. The outside hall was clustered with scratched and scorched Vehicons.

* * *

As Knockout was elbow deep in the innards of the third Vehicon who participated in what could only be described as a “rock chugging contest”, he was starting to understand _why_ the Autobots never bothered mass producing soldiers. He then spent the rest of his morning shift identifying a rust infection, chlorinated herpes, and a bee’s nest. The latter was the hardest to get rid of as the Vehicon had developed an odd affection toward the bees.

Then Knockout’s noon energon break was interrupted by yet another arrival. A Vehicon entered the medbay, dragging one of their companions.

“It’s not a big deal!” protested the one Vehicon.

“And I’m saying it’s a bigger deal than you’re making it out to be!” insisted the other.

“Can I _help_ you?” Knockout asked.

The Vehicon pointed at the one he had dragged.

“Steve’s having headaches!” the Vehicon tattled.

It took Knockout a few nanoseconds to realize the Vehicon meant ‘processor ache’. He had no idea why they had latched onto human language so quickly, but it likely had to do with them being created on Earth. He also wasn’t sure which Vehicons he was dealing with. The red medic never bothered with memorizing the Vehicon’s designations and he wasn’t about to start now. He only saw that ‘Steve’ was a standard combat Vehicon in purple and black and the one pulling him was a seeker type Vehicon in silver and red.

“Billy’s overreacting!” Steve insisted.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Get on the slab.” Knockout sighed. If he let the Vehicon go, Ratchet would never let him hear the end of it.

Steve grumbled but obediently got onto the berth. The other Vehicon gave a cursory wave and exited the medbay, leaving the other to his fate.

Steve held his helm low. “Make it quick, doc,” he sighed, “and don’t give my parts to Excelsior. He’s a dick.”

“Stop being a drama queen.” Knockout said. He snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and approached the Vehicon.

The minute Knockout’s screwdriver contacted the cortical panel on the back of Steve’s helm, an electrical jolt went through it. Knockout swore and dropped the tool. Steve clambered onto his knee-joints and grabbed Knockout’s hip plates. Small static shocks emanated from the mech’s fingers, not as painful as the cortical panel shock but certainly irritating.

“Oh, my Primus! Forgive me!” Steve begged, “Please don’t kill me! I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“Knock it off!” Knockout shoved the mech away. Steve remained on the floor and gave a fearful whimper. Knockout rotated his shocked arm with a grumble, “How long have you been discharging like that?”

“Um. Well.” Steve fidgeted, keeping his single optical panel toward the floor. “A bit over a month now? I think?” Knockout sighed and the Vehicon sputtered, “It wasn’t so bad at first! A snap here, a pop there, but then I started shorting things out. It gets better when I go for a flight, but then the headaches started and then the nightmares and…”

“Wait a minute.” Knockout recalled something Ratchet had mentioned what felt like years ago: the missing medbay supplies. “ _How_ have you been concealing this?”

Steve slumped forward.

“ _You were_ the one raiding the supplies.” Knockout concluded, “Making a painkiller cocktail, huh?”

“Only when it gets _really_ bad!” Steve insisted.

“How did you even learn to do that?” The Vehicons were created to follow simple orders and overwhelm the enemy. They weren’t supposed to be capable of independent thought, let alone making bootleg drugs.

“Oh. Well…” Steve fiddled with his talons. “Sometimes we find datapads in the recycling room. They’re old so no one misses them. Some of them have…instructions for different things, like how to make engex or nuke or cheap circuit-boosters.” He must have seen the annoyance on Knockout’s face because he quickly held up his servos, “N-not all of us use it for that though! Most of us can’t read Cybertronian.”

“But _you_ can.”

Steve nodded.

Knockout sighed. He didn’t have any precedent for how to deal with this. During the War, the average lifespan of a Vehicon was usually a week before they were blown to bits and those bits returned to Shockwave’s cloning chamber. He hadn’t even known the Vehicons were sentient or sparkless drones until Starscream’s spark extractor experiment. Not that there were many Vehicons left. Between the events of the synth-dark-energon corruption, Megatron’s death, the Predacons, Unicron and Megatron’s return, the remaining number of Vehicons were a tiny handful compared to the armada the Decepticons had possessed.

“You’re discharging electricity because your current frame isn’t large enough to accommodate for it and its overburdening your processor.” Knockout said. That was his best guess as to what was happening, “You need a software and hardware upgrade or you’re going to permanently short out your system.”

“I-is that bad?” Steve said.

“It’s going to be…different,” Knockout had never performed an upgrade on a Vehicon, but it shouldn’t be too difficult. He’d upgraded bots in the past, so a Vehicon should be no different. Hopefully.

Steve was at least excited to go over the details of what an upgrade would entail: a new frame model, paint, and weapons. It made Knockout remember his early jobs of running pop-up chop shops for those who couldn’t afford anything swankier, or for bots on the run who needed a quick change of identity. Knockout made a memo to request rubber insulation for Steve’s new frame and put him on more patrols to burn off overcharge.

“There’s, um, another thing.” Steve said, “I’ve been having…Commander Bumblebee called it déjà vu? Some of the other Vehicons are having it too. They hear things in certain parts of the city. Like…ghosts.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.” Knockout said, having no patience for superstitious Autobots _and_ Vehicons.

“Ghosts totally exist!” Steve insisted, “You can have a ghost in your head! Like in that anime about the Pretender.”

“For the last time, Steve, _Ghost in the Shell_ is not real.” Knockout said, “It’s going to take a while for me to get your new parts, so focus on burning off that electricity.”

Steve sighed but, to Knockout’s great relief, left the medbay without any more questions about Pretenders, ghosts, or any other media the Vehicons had gotten into. Knockout couldn’t shake the feeling that when he got access to the Autobot servers, it would be cluttered with human media and high definition porn.

Knockout had sat back at his desk and tried to finish his medical grade when the medbay door opened yet again. Arcee walked in, approaching the desk.

“I’m out to lunch.” Knockout said.

“You’re not ‘out’.” Arcee scoffed. 

“I’m having an out lunch while remaining here. Like a staycation but with food.” Knockout leaned back in his chair. 

“I’m not here for your ‘medical expertise’. I’m not even sure you’re certified.”

“For _your_ information, I attended Protihex Medical Mechanics University and supplemented it with the Intergalactic Technical-Medical Institute credits until they had to declare bankruptcy after all those lawsuits.”

“Weren’t those lawsuits about the quality of their credits?”

“Do you _need_ something or are you here to just bust my ball bearings?” Knockout growled.

Arcee exhaled and folded her arms. “I wanted to ask you about…things. Personal things.”

Knockout groaned and slumped onto his desk. “When did everyone around here get so damn nosey? Or nasal…venty? Whatever our term for it is.”

Arcee blinked. “…what are you talking about?”

“You’re here to nag me about Bumblebee, right? Is he being mopey? Or annoyingly chipper so you think everything is alright?”

“I haven’t seen Bumblebee all day.” Arcee said, “We’re in charge of different sectors and _why_ would I care what you two do? You’re both grown mechs.”

It was a simple answer that would come from any reasonable adult. Knockout didn’t trust it.

“Is this some kind of weird reverse psychology thing you’re doing with me?” Knockout asked.

“Uh, no? FYI: the universe doesn’t revolve around you. I have like a _million_ things to do so we can rebuild our war-ravaged society, so I’m not dedicating any of my processor power toward whatever _you’re_ doing with _your_ life. Unless you’re planning on bringing back the Decepticon cause in any form, I literally _don’t_ _care_ about you. And by the way, if you do that, I’ll shoot you and I _will_ make sure you suffer.”

Yeah, that sounded a lot more like the Arcee the Decepticons had grown to know and fear.

“No worries there, sister.” Knockout said.

“Just so we’re clear.” Arcee said with a grin, “ _Anyway_ , I need your expertise on holding a conversation with a loyal Decepticon while being a loyal Autobot and making sure to be”—she made air quotations—“ _polite_.”

Knockout raised an optical ridge. Now the conversation was taking a turn for the interesting. He even stopped sipping his energon just so he could give this his full attention.

“Into _minibots_ are we?” Knockout asked with a big grin.

“What? _No_! This is for work. I need to ask her some questions.”

“And those questions don’t include ‘What’s your interface hook-up?’ and ‘Can I comm you on the DL?’.” Knockout chortled. Arcee sputtered, her optics shrinking in anger, “What was her name again? Nitro…?”

“Nickel!”

“Seems like you’ve already got the name committed to spark.”

Arcee paused as her optics rapidly moved between dilation and near-shuttering in momentary confusion. It was times like this that Knockout wished Cybertronians could blush like humans.

“It’s not…I mean…” Arcee huffed, “It’s not what you think! I need Nickel to work with us because I have questions, which she won’t answer because every other word out of her mouth is a pro-fascist slogan or how I don’t think cybernetic lives matter as much as the organic ones.”

“Uh, yeah,” Knockout said, “you _don’t_.”

“… _excuse_ me?” Now the optics were back to narrow rage. “I spent my entire _life_ fighting for Cybertronians. I have to go to the damn second moon to figure out why our message isn’t getting out _and_ we still have to set up a working government! Megatron led the Decepticons for Primus _knows_ how long and you couldn’t even establish a functioning colony! Pit, you probably all tried to murder each other rather than build a place people could _live_!”

Knockout shrugged. “You’re not wrong, but that doesn’t erase how the Autobots’ prioritized protecting your organic pets. Need I remind you of the Omega Lock incident or the synthetic energon formula? Even the _ship_ we’re on is a Decepticon because you Autobots had to rely on _humans_ for help.”

“All those things happened because _we_ brought _our_ war to _their_ planet. Humans don’t deserve to suffer because of us, and they aren’t a threat.”

“ _Bzzzt!_ I’m sorry, but the _actual_ answer to that statement is ‘MECH’.” Knockout said, “You never treated MECH like a threat on scale with the ‘Cons. You air bombed us, spied on us, tortured us, oh wait, I mean used ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’.” He used air quotations for that piece of slag. “The only reason you didn’t crack down on MECH was because you didn’t want to anger your precious organics. Meanwhile, MECH ran around killing humans, kidnapping bots, creating abominations, tearing…tearing people… _apart_ …and you…”

Knockout had a point with this argument. He had seen the rough draft, knew what topics to go over and how he was going to stick to his guns. He wasn’t a Decepticon anymore, but he still had principals…didn’t he? Knockout had believed in _something_ …but that ‘something’ was as solid as vapor. Now he only remembered the day he saw a dark blue finish and a saffron faceplate missing an eye. Happiness and surprise had flooded Knockout’s spark, along with the hope that everything would go back to normal.

Then that hope was crushed when he heard that stranger’s voice. A human puppeteering a corpse.

The dead are dead. It was the one rule Decepticons adhered to. It was just Knockout’s turn to accept it. 

If Arcee was a Decepticon, she would have left the medbay in a huff so that Knockout could stew in his rage or argued louder for the Autobot cause. She could insist on how there were always bad decisions during a war and that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.

The femme walked around the desk and knelt in front of Knockout, so they were at the same optic level.

“I…can’t begin to understand what you’ve been through,” Arcee said, “War is a blade that cuts both ways. It causes pain no matter who we think is winning. I’d be an idiot to ignore that you’re right; we never treated MECH like the threat they were, but that’s the advantage of being an Autobot. Could you honestly say that you could bring up such an issue with Megatron without the fear of reprimand or injury?”

Knockout wasn’t Soundwave. He wasn’t so blindly loyal to a cruel ‘master’ as to ignore everything that Megatron had done. Knockout was no different though; he had enacted his cruelties and petty acts of vengeance.

“I saw a lot of death during the war,” Arcee said, “but I never had to experience seeing someone I love turn into a monster at the hands of the people I protected. When Cliffjumper…when the dark energon had him, he had a swift end. I can’t imagine how you dealt with what happened to Breakdown and I have no doubt that if it had happened to me, or Ratchet, Optimus wouldn’t have hesitated to end him—human or not.”

Knockout smirked. “Sounds like ‘Con talk to me.”

“People think Autobots are soft sparked because we prefer compromise and cooperation to threats and murder.” Arcee said with a smile, “They forget that military victories aren’t won just by sitting on our afts. We may not have Decepticon numbers, but we have better battle plans.”

As much as Knockout hated the Autobot bureaucracy and insistence on listening to everyone’s opinion—no matter how idiotic—it made for a better society. Decepticons could barely cooperate unless it was a life or death situation. There was no way you could build a civilization with that method.

“You’re overthinking things with Nickel.” Knockout said. He sat back in his chair, “She _has_ to have some interest outside of faction politics. Find some common ground being the only femmes among a group of idiots. Or you could frag.”

Arcee’s shoulders slumped. “Do ‘Cons use fragging as conversation pieces?”

Knockout smirked. “You don’t?”

“Oh, _Primus_ …” Arcee muttered and decided to finally exit the medbay.

* * *

After that visit Knockout enjoyed a rare treat: silence. He finished his energon cube and started sorting through the datapads. The boxes were halfway done, with most of them going to recycling. He had no idea what the Autobots had in mind for all these blanked datapads but hopefully, it wouldn’t take up as much room. It was a nice experience—sitting in the medbay behind a desk, completing a bland yet calming task…for about thirty minutes. Then all pit broke loose.

Krok burst into the medbay yelling about an emergency while Fulcrum followed, bringing in a miasma that Knockout’s olfactory sensors could only describe as pure noxiousness. Misfire insisted the situation wasn’t his fault while carrying a leg and lastly, Predaking entered carrying Wheeljack, who was missing said leg.

“What happened? Why are you carrying a leg?” Knockout asked. As the Scavengers approached, Knockout retreated from the odor, “My gods, what is that _stench_?” 

“Citronella.” Fulcrum opened a servo and Knockout had to squint at the small, human proportioned citronella bucket candle he was holding. “Miko said it would repel bugs.”

“Why would you—why would Miko even—how did she—what-- _why_ \--” Knockout’s processor was stuttering to piece together how this sequence of events took place. He decided to skip it, gesturing to the whole slew of bots _, “What even happened here?”_

“I’d just like to state for the record that it wasn’t my fault,” Misfire said.

“Like pit it isn’t!” Krok said, “You were the one that stepped on the hive!”

“Yeah, but Wheeljack tripped the wire.” Fulcrum said.

“I wouldn’t have tripped it if Spinster didn’t push me for fun!” Wheeljack said.

“I didn’t push you. I was running from the fritz-rats.” Spinster said.

“Everything was going fine until the cyber-wasps attacked.” Crankcase said.

“Predaking ate most of them.” Wheeljack coughed and then spat out a screw. “Well, _that_ ain’t good.”

Predaking’s optical ridge twitched. “…I think the cyber-wasps are rebuilding their nest inside me.”

“Oh, not _again_.” Misfire groaned, “You wouldn’t have this problem if you’d _chew_ your food instead of swallowing it whole like a weird snake!”

“But I _like_ it when the things I consume squirm from suffocation,” Predaking said.

“Oh _gods_.” Knockout switched off his olfactory sensor before he purged the medical-grade energon he spent the last hour suffering through.

Herding the Scavengers around the relatively small medbay area was a chore on an equal level with herding a bunch of skittish Vehicons for vaccinations. Knockout managed to get the Scavengers out of the medbay and clear the air of the citronella stench, which was the most pressing issue. (Okay, maybe the most pressing issue were the cyber-hornets inside of Predaking’s tank but for _Knockout_ , the citronella was far more important.)

The citronella also did no favors for the cyber-hornets. In fact, the smell seemed to have irritated them just as badly as Knockout, filling the air with angry buzzing from within the Predacon lord. Removing the angered insects wasn’t Knockout’s first removal of the day, so he underwent the same process he had for the Vehicon infested with bee’s: douse the insects in drugged smoke, pull them out with tongs, and stuff them into a jar.

Knockout, however, wasn’t prepared for the _other_ objects in the Predacon’s gullet aside from the infestation: two wrenches, a few plastic toys, some foam rubber darts, insecticon mandibles, several angry electro-voles, and four datapads.

“So _that’s_ where Spinster’s army mechs went.” Misfire said, observing the removed plastic toys.

“Didn’t I tell you to _leave_?” Knockout growled and deposited an irritated electro-vole into a box with the rest.

“But Predaking gets nervous around strangers,” Misfire said. He sat on the edge of the berth next to the giant Predacon and held his giant servo. Misfire’s servos weren’t even big enough to wrap around Predaking’s palm. 

“I’m not a stranger to _either_ of you!” Knockout said, “Also, he’s a Predacon. Not your pet turbo-fox getting dewormed.” He looked at Predaking. “Why did you even eat most of this?”

“My frame processes nutrients differently than yours. I have multiple stomachs for times of starvation so not everything is processed at once.” Predaking said, “It is likely during my isolation and illness in Darkmount that my beast mode's vision and higher thought processes were impaired. It was only when I was fully repaired, I regained my intelligence.” He paused, “Also, boredom and curiosity.”

“Oooh. I love it when you monologue.” Misfire purred with hooded optics.

Knockout had seen the look Misfire was giving Predaking on a certain seeker’s faceplate far too many times for comfort.

“You know he’s related to _Starscream_ , right?” Knockout asked, pointing at Misfire.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Predaking answered.

Knockout looked at Misfire. “You know he’s a giant fire-breathing drag--oh, of _course_ , you don’t care.” The red mech should have figured that Misfire would inherit not Starscream’s treachery, intelligence, or aim but his size kink. “Try not to fill the Cybertronian outback with Predacon sparklings. I don’t think the planet’s wildlife would recover.”

Misfire’s optics went wide. It was like he had learned of the human concept of Christmas and he was on the Nice list. 

“Wait, that can _happen_?” Misfire said.

Knockout had no idea who had overseen Misfire’s upbringing, but he had a feeling they purposely left some holes. The red medic quickly sealed Predaking’s innards with a strip of duct tape.

“Sorry, got other patients to see! Report all your questions—fragging and otherwise—to Ratchet!” Knockout said. He pushed the two out the door and made sure to shut it behind him. 

“Whelp. There goes the future.” Wheeljack snorted. He had been dumped onto a medical berth, watching Knockout go about his repairs as he held onto his leg. “We’re gonna be up to our optics in seeker eggs with _Predacon_ CNA.”

“Trust me: if seekers laid eggs it would make things _way_ easier.” Knockout said. He was _never_ going to forget reaching into Starscream’s valve because of Misfire’s helm. 

“Wonderful. Also, if you’re not too busy, maybe you can do your job and _reattach my fragging_ _leg_?” The white and grey mech waved the detached limb.

“Keep your pelvic armor on, _Jackie_.” Knockout removed the anti-shock gloves and deposited them in the recycling chute before approaching the berth. “It’s not like you’re doing anything important.”

“Wrong. I’m a Wrecker. _Everything_ we do is important.”

“ _Former_ Wrecker. Also, trying to frag every breathing thing you come across doesn’t count as ‘important’.” Knockout picked up the leg to observe the breakage. The leg had come off a few centimeters below the knee-joint. There was no splintering in the dermaplates that came with a blade’s impact; it was a clean cut, like a hot knife through rock-butter.

“What exactly happened here?” Knockout asked as he weighed the options for reattachment.

“I was gonna ask you that.” Wheeljack said, “One minute we’re walking through the first sublevel to case out what needs cleaning, the next I get pushed from behind, and then I’m on the ground!”

“You didn’t feel it? Or hear anything?”

“I think I heard a ‘pop’, but it was faint. Like a rubber band snapping.”

For the cut to be so clean and for it not to register with Wheeljack’s pain receptors, it must have been sharp and quick—a trap designed to force retreat rather than lethality.

“All the traps on the first sublevel should have been disabled by Bumblebee and Bulkhead,” Knockout said, “so you tripped something new or we have an unwanted guest.”

Wheeljack shook his helm. “The motion detectors I put in place should have picked up anything bigger than a turbofox.”

“If you’re Starscream or Shockwave, messing with motion detectors is sparkling’s play.” Knockout turned his arm into the flamethrower and screwed on the welding attachment. “Keep still. According to Starscream, my welds aren’t great.”

“I should’ve waited for Ratchet.” Wheeljack grumbled, “Where’s the usual ray of sunshine? It’s not like him to surrender his medbay to an amateur.” 

“I’m a trained medical professional!” Knockout huffed. He lined up the leg with Wheeljack’s knee joint and cleaned the area with acetone.

“Where’s your degree?”

“You Autobots are real sticklers for pieces of paper.” Knockout heated up the torch and began the actual task of welding. “Is being an annoyance your method of getting under my plating or do you talk to Ratchet this way too?”

“What, I’m not allowed to needle my medics?” Wheeljack said, “Plus, I wanted to see how our red recruit is doing. You ‘Cons love defecting but you hate to stay. Most of you turn fender and go neutral.” 

“If a ‘Con lives after defecting, nobody cared about them to begin with.”

“Won’t deny that.” Wheeljack shuttered his optics but his frame remained stiff. He still didn’t trust Knockout as far as he could throw him. “Last time I checked; Deadlock still had a hefty bounty.”

Now _that_ was a designation Knockout hadn’t heard in ages. Knockout had kept his distance from the mech and the other Unicronists he hung around. It was difficult enough dealing with creepy, silent Soundwave. Knockout wanted no parts of mechs who actively _worshipped_ the Slagmaker and hung onto every single syllable coming out of Cyclonus’s mouth.

“Starscream would have had a bounty when he defected if Megatron could stay angry at him for longer than a week.” Knockout said as he tested the weld’s strength with a screwdriver.

“Easy!” Wheeljack hissed, “My leg fell off, but my pain receptors still function.”

“Don’t be such a mechling. Pain means the weld will hold.”

“You’re worse than Ratchet.” Wheeljack said, sulking, “What _was_ the deal with Megs and Screamer? Seemed like they did nothing but try to kill each other, but never got around to it. Was the fragging good enough to ignore attempted murder?”

“Megatron didn’t have much of a choice.” Knockout continued prodding the welds, ignoring Wheeljack’s grimaces. “’Cons couldn’t be picky about who joined up, since we were a bunch of weirdoes, rejects, and degenerates. Starscream was the only one with aerial combat and scientific experience, _and_ he had an ‘in’ with the government as an energon seeker. The only reason he was Second-in-Command was because Megatron didn’t trust Shockwave and Soundwave was the one chunk of processor code running everything else. Plus, I think Megatron enjoyed the challenge. Knowing that ancient, 8-bit processor, he’d be glad if Starscream offed him. ‘Let the strong lead’ or some other gladiator slag.”

“8-bit? You think Megs is _that_ old?”

Knockout shrugged. “Megatron’s had more frame switches and upgrades than Starscream and I was never allowed to know _too_ much. That was for _Soundwave’s_ visor only.”

“Felt left out, huh?”

The welds were holding so Knockout gave them time to cool. He learned against the berth—not that he was _tired_ ; he just needed a bit of rest. And his pedes were aching but that was completely unrelated.

“Bots are the same all over. Everyone has cliques.” Knockout said, “It’s just that with ‘Cons, being in the wrong clique gets you a laser through the processor instead of…I don’t know what ‘Bots do when you’re irritated with someone. Ignore them? Bully them over the internet? Or is that against the Autobot code?”

“It is and if I were Ultra Magnus, I’d lecture you about how Autobots never bully one another and we’re all a very professional and efficient military unit.” Wheeljack said, grinning, “Then again, if I were Ultra Magnus, the first thing I’d do is grab the nearest sharp object and perforate my audial.”

Knockout smirked. “Shouldn’t you be showing your superior a little more respect, Autobot?”

“You can respect someone and still think they’re a pain in the aft,” Wheeljack replied, “and the only reason Magnus was put in charge of the Wreckers was due to a few, highly exaggerated incidents.”

“And what terrible acts did you squeaky clean Autobots, darlings of the High Council and the Primes, commit?” Knockout leaned over Wheeljack. “Show up ten minutes late to a meeting? Inappropriately use a comma in your report? Forget to cite your sources?”

“Trust me: we were not the current Prime’s darlings after what _we_ did. You know about Sentinel Prime’s _special_ habsuites?”

Knockout only recalled Sentinel Prime as being the Prime before Optimus and being one of the worst leaders in Cybertronian history. He had been Prime from before Knockout had been forged and was why Functionalism infested the High Council. It was also no coincidence he had been one of the richest bots on the planet. Knockout had taken special pleasure in watching footage of Decepticons bomb his properties in Tyger Pax and Uraya.

“Don’t tell me you egged the Prime’s mansion?” Knockout said.

“Even if we had eggs, it wouldn’t have been as bad as what we did.” Wheeljack said, “Sentinel was paranoid even before the ‘Cons took off, so he shuffled around his habsuites at random. He used some Wreckers as his bodyguards rather than let work, so we decided to blow off some steam. Sentinel had a cushy place by the Mithril Sea in Nyon and we had keycards. Pulled up during the offseason and invited some sororities…and fraternities. And _maybe_ some drinking buddies showed up. And some bots we met down by the bridge. Okay, maybe a few shareware mechs came by but nothing _too_ illicit.”

“I’m _sure_ you tried to turn them away.”

“Hey, when Wreckers throw a party, we throw a _party_. It was a crazy weekend. Only problem was Sentinel showed up on the last day when he was supposed to be in Torus Heights. Kinda hard to do an emergency clean-up when you’re blazed on engex and have every available orifice available crammed with spikes and your mouth in someone’s valve. It was a _little_ messy. Not the sordid affair everyone made it sound like…I _swear_.” The mech’s was now actively struggling to keep a straight face.

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t that bad. Just transfluid all over the walls, interface panels exposed…” Knockout ran a talon along Wheeljack’s chassis as his engine loudly purred.

“Speaking of panels, yours looks ready to fly off.”

Knockout was sitting on top of Wheeljack. As the sordid details of the story unfolded, Knockout’s frame decided it wanted to get closer. Wheeljack hadn’t ignored the language of Knockout’s frame, resting his servos on the red mech’s hip.

“Damn, you’re good.” Knockout said. In any other circumstance he would be irritated, but game should always recognize game.

“A thousand years of practice will work wonders.” Wheeljack punctuated the statement by plying at Knockout’s pelvic panel.

The red mech’s engines gave a sultry hum. Knockout didn’t cancel the command for the panel to slide away. Wheeljack ran a thumb outside his valve, sending pulses of warmth along his soft mesh.

Then the door irised open.

“No _no NO!_ ” Ratchet yelled.

Before Knockout could climb off, he was struck in the chassis and face with heavy white foam. Wheeljack was also splattered but stuck on the berth, as his leg was still mending.

“I don’t care what you two do in your free time but keep it out of _my_ medbay!” Ratchet yelled. The old mech stomped over to the berth, holding a fire extinguisher. “This is supposed to be the one location that _hasn’t_ been splattered with transfluid!” 

“Oh, like you and Optimus never did it in _ours_.” Wheeljack grunted.

“We didn’t even have a _medbay_ until now!” Ratchet insisted.

Knockout scrambled off Wheeljack and was wiping off foam with a towel from his subspace.

“This anti-fire foam better not mess with my finish!” Knockout said.

“This isn’t anti-fire foam. This is anti- _fragging_ foam.” Ratchet said and held up the fire extinguisher. The ‘fire extinguisher’ glyphs had been crossed out with permanent marker and ‘frag extinguisher’ written underneath.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.” Knockout said.

“When you get to be my age, you learn to take precautions.” Ratchet insisted.

The crabby medic was ancient but worked fast. He checked over Wheeljack’s leg weld, offered the mech a temporary walking cane (which was quickly rejected) and then shooed the former Wrecker out the medbay within a minute.

“Need I remind you that its _highly inappropriate_ for you to engage in relationships until you officially become an Autobot?” Ratchet said, “Autobots also have strict protocols when it comes to in-faction relationships.”

“I’m not having ‘relationships’ with anyone.” Knockout grumbled. He wished Ratchet had Arcee’s indifference toward his interfacing habits. “Is there even any point to me being an ‘official’ Autobot? I already work in your medbay. If I wanted to sabotage the cause, I would’ve done it by now. Do I have to write an essay say I’m sorry for being a ‘Con? Adopt a human pet? ‘Cause I’m not great with those.”

Ratchet raised an optical ridge. “Ironic, given your condition.”

“Sparklings aren’t pets! And they’re _way_ more durable than a human!”

“Not by much.” Ratchet returned the frag extinguisher to his subspace and walked to his desk. He looked at the datapads Knockout had piled onto his desk, since the old medic was so fond of Knockout filing ‘reports’ for every nick and scratch the Vehicons experienced. “Speaking of that, what are your plans for your protoform?”

“Uh, have it? Preferably while doped up on painkillers?”

“ _Aside_ from that.” Ratchet sighed, “Are you giving them to a creche?”

“There hasn’t been a functioning creche on Cybertron since the Well was emptied. Or the creches were all bombed to slag before that. Maybe both.” With a million-year war, it was hard to keep track of what hadn’t been destroyed, emptied, or imploded.

“It’s against Autobot policy to force bots to surrender their creations unless it’s an a hazardous situation,” Ratchet said, “However, it would be naïve not to mention that as a Decepticon defector, you and your protoform are bound to experience some prejudice and factional microaggressions from not only Autobots but Neutrals as well.” Knockout opened his mouth, but Ratchet held up his servo. “Hear me out. I know creches aren’t a perfect fit for everyone and a staple of Functionalism, but we can remake it. It has benefits.”

“Name _one_.” Knockout growled.

“It eliminates faction bias.” Ratchet said, “Only MTOs are built with faction shields installed but not forged protoforms. Protoforms don’t have allegiances. You could give them an easier life--”

“I don’t fragging _believe_ this!” Knockout yelled, “You’re asking me to _surrender_ my kid? After going through all this scrap of _hiding_ them from those Galactic Council bigots? You…you expect me to _give them up_?”

Ratchet slowly approached the red mech, “Knockout, calm down--”

“ _No_! Frag you, Ratchet!” Knockout shouted, “I can’t _believe_ you would—why would you—”

“Deep vents, Knockout. Take it easy.”

“Frag you, I’m fine!” Knockout said between big, heaving gulps.

Ratchet ignored Knockout’s protests and lead the red and black mech to a medical berth. Knockout sat down, breathing slowly as the medic instructed.

“I know it’s a difficult, but it’s my duty as your medic to broach the topic.” Ratchet said. He handed Knockout a small cup of coolant. “I don’t know how Decepticons view protoform rearing but as an Autobot, no one would shame you for your choice.”

“I _know_ that,” Knockout chugged the rest of the coolant and crushed the plastic cup in his talon. His legs were still quivering but he forced himself to stand. “And I’m saying right now that I’m not giving my kid up. Not for you, or anyone else.”

“Knockout, I didn’t mean--”

“Save it. Shift’s over anyway.”

Knockout exited the medbay. At the moment, the old Autobot was the last mech he wanted to share space with.

* * *

The problem with living on a spaceship was that there were few places to be ‘alone’. Every inch had to be efficiently utilized and the only isolated area were the sublevels and their questionable safety. Knockout couldn’t even go to the commissary to sulk, as it was crowded with Vehicons watching Smokescreen engage in yet another culinary experiment. Those who didn’t have an interest in getting their tanks pumped had commandeered the big screen for movie night.

Just standing outside of the commissary with the noise of socialization echoing through the corridors soured Knockout’s mood to a whole new level he never thought possible. He shifted to his alt-mode. A drive around the ship was what he needed.

So, Knockout drove. For hours. Maybe a few more hours than was recommended for a compiling mech, but it burned off the anxious energy that had been mounting in his engine.

When Knockout got to his habsuite, it was empty and cold. Knockout shouldn’t have been fazed; it would have been more of a surprise for it _not_ to be in that condition. His tank churned and a low fuel reserve warning popped up on his HUD.

Knockout laid on his berth. The lack of a fuel would be a worry for later, less tired Knockout. Present Knockout needed a nap.

* * *

An hour later, Knockout woke with a splitting processor ache and a brand-new hatred for past Knockout. Also, he couldn’t move. His tank was making that empty, grinding noise and the room was spinning. He didn’t even have the energy to crawl out of bed. He laid on the bed and stared at his HUD, cluttered with the same old errors. He needed to refuel but he could hardly move.

Knockout considered his alternatives and quickly learned the list was short. Swallowing his pride, pushed the HUD messages aside, and opened his comm app. The comm app on his processor was slow from all the monitoring software but it was better than nothing. He only had two frequencies in his address list: _Doctor Grumpenstein_ (Ratchet) and _Yellow Menace_ (Bumblebee). Knockout didn’t want to talk to Ratchet but the other was…

Ugh…

A cramp crawled across Knockout’s abdomen, which cemented the choice for the red and black mech. Struggling through the ache, Knockout opened the messenger.

**[Uh, hey.]**

Oh gods. Was that too casual? It felt like it had been ages since Knockout had to use his comm to talk to someone outside of work. Wait, what time was it? Knockout’s chronometer said it was late into the night shift. What if Bumblebee thought Knockout was asking for something else? Oh frag. Frag fragfragfraggityfrag—

**[BUMBLEBEE: still hiding out in your room?]**

Knockout’s flaming anxiety was immediately doused by the cold coolant of annoyance.

**[Im not!]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: im only asking cause the vehicons said you peeked in the commissary and then took off B/ ]**

Knockout wondered where these Vehicons observational skills had been when the _Nemesis_ was dealing with a Terrorcon infestation.

**[I didnt want to interrupt movie night by rummaging around]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: wow, i always wondered what you would sound like at your most awkward and here it is]**

**[I’m not being awkward!]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: stop pretending you don’t need help and open your door BI ]**

**[I…]**

Gods, would Knockout’s pride ever recover from this night?

**[…I cant.]**

**[BUMBLEBEE: you can’t?]**

**[Just come get me alright?]**

The habsuite door irised open, letting in the annoying and bright corridor lights. Bumblebee walked in and then noticed Knockout.

“You look like scrap.” Bumblebee said.

Knockout used the dregs of his strength to roll toward the yellow mech. “You can’t tell that.” he said.

“Your optics are pale. Are you in low fuel lock?”

“No.” _Almost,_ Knockout’s processor corrected. “Just help me sit up.”

Even sitting up made Knockout’s helm spin. He tried to take a step away from a berth but only leaned against Bumblebee, resting his helm on the yellow mech’s chassis. He had always thought of the yellow Autobot as small and stealthy. When did he get so tall, or had Knockout always underestimated him the same as every Decepticon?

“Do you want--” 

“Don’t call Ratchet. Just drag me to the nearest energon receptacle and leave me there.”

Bumblebee grumbled something that sounded a lot like “you stupid red disaster” but picked up Knockout and carried him into the corridor. He transformed into his alt, making sure Knockout was strapped in the front seat as he drove toward the commissary. Knockout must have nodded off at some point because he woke up to Bumblebee standing over him.

“You with me, Knocks?” Bumblebee asked, holding an energon cube. 

Knockout was lying on a couch in the empty commissary. The only light was the TV playing old broadcasts from Earth. It was a discovery one of the Vehicons made while fiddling with the antenna. They had only received black and white episodes of a show Raf called _Dr. Who._ Other times it would pick up color. Knockout didn’t pretend to under what was happened as time and space were weird and not his concern.

Knockout grasped the energon cube. He never thought he would be thankful to drink medical grade but here he was, savoring even the weird gritty texture. 

“You didn’t call Ratchet?” Knockout said.

Bumblebee sat on the far end of the couch, as if Knockout was contagious. “You said not to.”

“Yeah, but…”

Knockout should have figured that an Autobot would obey his wishes rather than ignore them the moment things became too much for them. Decepticons preferred to pass problems along rather than solve them on their own; that was how you got saddled with all the blame when things went wrong.

“You should get back to your shift.” Knockout said.

“Aside from emergencies, I’m off shift. Commanders have to recharge too.” Bumblebee said with a smile. “Same goes for stubborn medics.”

“I’m perfectly agreeable compared to Ratchet.” Knockout scoffed, “He spent the whole day hunting people down. Won’t catch me doing that.”

“It’s Processor Check Day. He _has_ to hunt everyone down.”

“Processor Check Day?” Knockout asked as he searched for the remote in the couch cushions. Despite everyone’s best effort, the device always seemed to be sucked into the furniture.

“You know. Talking to people, making sure their processors are optimal and that they’re adjusting after the war.” When Knockout stared at him, Bumblebee frowned. “Oh wait. Decepticon. Processor health was the last thing you worried about.”

“Like memory core leaks and heatsink failure?” Knockout found the remote hidden in a crevice and began to flip through the channels. Most of it was a static-filled mess or too fritzed out and stuttered to make it worth watching.

“ _No_ , like battle neurosis, survivor guilt, general maladjustment…you never took classes in basic processor care?”

Maybe it had come up, but the war had interrupted a lot of Knockout’s classes. “I was trained to make bots look nice. Brain meddling was more Shockwave’s ener-jam than mine.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘ener-jam’ isn’t a thing,” Bumblebee said, “and Ratchet has always worked hard to make sure we’re not at our limits, both physically and mentally.”

“Ironic coming from the mech who tested experimental energon on himself rather than a frizz-rat. Sounds like _he’s_ the one who should get his processor examined, not the other way around.”

Bumblebee shrugged. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

Typical Autobot response when questions about substance abuse, though Decepticons were not a sterling example either. Knockout had tried plenty of questionable substances but never on the job. Not that Knockout could talk; he had tried plenty of questionable substances, but not while he was supposed to be on the job. Knockout was a bit too tired to argue Autobot versus Decepticon morals and concerns though. He shifted his optics toward the TV, where a human woman was screeching at another and then slapping her. The language was strange, and he had to re-engage his translation chip for the first time in a while.

“What is this dreck?” Knockout said. His translation chip quickly identified the language as Spanish and began translating out the angst-filled dialogue the woman was saying.

Bumblebee squinted at the screen, “Looks like a telenovela.”

“A tele-what?”

“It’s a human soap opera made in Latin America. This looks like an old episode of _Mientras La Cocina se Hunde_ since Luna Enríquez is here. She used to be a big deal back in the 80s.”

Knockout stared at Bumblebee with a look that could be described as deeply confused and yet intrigued.

“Raf explained it to me!” Bumblebee huffed, “Apparently, telenovela time in his family is ‘sacred’.”

Knockout looked back at the screen. Now the slap fight had escalated into a full-on assault involving a vase and a champagne corkscrew (from where they found said items was a mystery). A man burst into the room with his shirt halfway open to show off his masculine physique, demanding to know what was going on.

“Really now? This nonsense is ‘sacred’?” Knockout scoffed.

Bumblebee nodded. “Every afternoon his family would either be gathered in the living room or cleared out to let their mother and grandmother watch their shows. Raf wasn’t obsessed with them but he could tell you every detail since he had been watching them since he was a baby.”

“Humans think everything is sacred.”

“No one’s stopping you from changing the channel.”

“I know that! I just want to see what the big _deal_ is.”

It became a lot harder for Knockout to insist that he was only watching out of curiosity as the chronometer moved forward and the channel was yet to be changed. Bumblebee’s smugness only grew when one episode ended and Knockout wanted to know the backstories of torrid love affairs between the Yáñez girls and the Molinero boys—two powerful families that seemed to hate each other and yet were unable to cut them out of their lives, along with the many complicated family trees.

As the night inched closer to dawn, Knockout found himself slumping over and nearly falling on the couch. He sat up and looked at Bumblebee; the yellow mech who was still sitting at the far end of the couch.

“Why are you still sitting over there?” Knockout grumbled.

Bumblebee tilted his helm. “Uh, because the last time I was in your space you freaked out?”

“I didn’t freak out.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Bumblebee muttered, “Listen, I just don’t know about relationships. There’s a lot going on and you’re not even a ‘Bot yet--”

“Oh, so fragging me is perfectly okay?”

“No, it’s not! I mean, it’s _great_ but I _shouldn’t_ be doing it!”

Knockout smirked. “Is that how ‘Bots get off: breaking your sanctified rules?”

“ _No_!” Bumblebee’s optics were a little too dilated for that to be the truth and he conceded with a huff, “Okay, maybe…a _little_ , but not to the point you think! I don’t make a big deal when you get clingy because of…” He waved a servo at Knockout’s abdomen. “…that.”

Something twitched in the lower half of Knockout’s abdomen, but he ignored it. It had to be nerves or his tetchy tank system beating back nausea. It was too early into compiling for anything to be moving around. The only thing sitting in his gestational forge was a bundle of wires and metal sucking up everything he offered like a parasite.

(Slag, he should probably start thinking of a name. He couldn’t keep referring to his sparkling as ‘annoying’ or ‘parasite’. Ratchet would start thinking he didn’t like it.)

“So, you’re only bothering with me because I’m compiling?” Knockout grumbled.

“Well, yeah.” Bumblebee then noticed the annoyance on Knockout’s face and quickly added, “I mean, well, Ratchet said we were in this together.”

“Hardly.” Knockout grumbled, “ _I’m_ the one doing all the hard work.”

“Yeah, but that’s why I’m here: to help out when you don’t feel like dealing with Ratchet.”

“I’m sure Primus or whatever god you worship will look upon it kindly when you go back to the All Spark.” Knockout scoffed.

“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.” Bumblebee paused. “Wait, there are other gods besides Primus?”

Knockout laid down on the couch and stretched out his legs. If Bumblebee was going to hesitate about moving in closer, he was going to use his lap as a pede rest.

“Oh, my sweet summer child. How little you know.” Knockout said. He thumped his pedes into Bumblebee’s lap and shut his optics.

“I’m the same age as you!” Bumblebee grumbled and didn’t push the pedes immediately off.

“Barely.”

Bumblebee seemed to be flustered around Knockout’s pedes, as if he was unsure about touching them or where to put his servos. Eventually Knockout felt the couch dip as Bumblebee placed his servos by his sides.

“If you’re tired, I could take you to your hab.” Bumblebee said.

“No, this is…fine. Let’s just stay like this. For a bit.”

“Awww, is wittle Knockout comfy?” Bumblebee teased.

“I’m still watching the show.”

“Your optics are shuttered!” the yellow mech laughed.

Knockout opened his optics and smirked up at Bumblebee. “You miss seeing my perfect rubies that much, ‘Bee?”

Bumblebee’s optics dilated in the manner that was quickly becoming familiar to Knockout when the yellow Autobot got especially flustered. Bumblebee sighed and then laid down. It was awkward trying to rest side by side on the couch, but no different than trying to rest on Knockout’s narrow berth.

Knockout’s chronometer showed that it was only a few hours until morning shift. It was only a matter of time before others showed up in the commissary and work began.

He found that he didn’t care. He’d worry about Bumblebee, a name for the kid, and everything else tomorrow.

There was always tomorrow.


	25. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forget about Bumblebee and Knockout's weird not-relationship! Here's a chapter all about Steve the Vehicon. No need to thank me, I'm just doing my part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: starvation, torture, robo-gore

> **Like most of the Vehicons (except for Billy), Steve follows a strict schedule of fueling, patrolling, and then attempting to observe this ‘free time’ thing the Autobots insist he engages in. For his free time, Steve watches anime uploaded onto the Autobot server and writing fanfiction for said anime. He’s currently doing a self-insert AU for Gundam Wing. Billy wants to beta-read it but Steve’s far too embarrassed to share.**

_Salt and oil. Energon and rust. The odors had become so oppressive that his overworked processor could no longer detect anything else. His tank violently churned but he couldn’t move. There was nothing left to power his system. Even the dregs of fuel had been consumed just to keep his optics lit. Violet optics stared at him, standing out against the light and shadows of where they laid. His vision was failing him and it was all he could make out. He reached out, metal servos brittle from starvation._

_“Please.” The voice was a whisper in the wind, drifting from those vivid optics. “You have to kill me…please, do it before…”_

_A loud chime. The air shook with its vibration. Then the floor gave way and he fell._

Steve awoke in darkness. His systems were still booting up and his visor flickered on, coating the narrow habsuite in red light. It took him minutes to realize there was no urgent reason for his sudden awakening—the ship wasn’t under siege, no monsters were scraping at the door. Just another nightmare screwing up his sleep cycle. Steve turned off his visor and laid on the slab, debating what could be done next. Returning to sleep was pointless. Should he do some late night/early morning internet browsing? Practice his Cybertronian?

The decision was made for him when the door was kicked open. Light flooded in from the hall and Steve growled, covering his face.

“ _Steve_! Holy slag!” Billy squealed. The Vehicon climbed onto Steve’s bed and shook him. “You won’t believe what I just found out! Wake up wake up _wake up--_ ”

“I’m _up_.” Steve groaned.

The Vehicon sat up and regretted it, feeling the pop and creak of his stiff, sleep sluggish joints. His internal clock informed him that the ‘night’ shift on the _Nemesis_ (rename pending) had ended and it was only an hour until dawn. Still monstrously early but that never mattered to Billy. Billy was the reason no one else wanted the spare bedroom and preferred to be crammed in the dorms. Steve hadn’t understood it. The windowless closet bedroom was a paradise. It had a _bed_! And a place to put his _stuff_! (Okay, Steve didn’t have any stuff but the option to acquire and place stuff was _amazing_!)

Still, that paradise came with a caveat and its name was Billy Shakes.

“Billy, did you get into the aluminum again?” Steve sighed. Billy was the reason why all the sweet containers now had childproof locks.

“Noooo…” Billy huffed. If he had a proper face, he would be pouting. “I just heard from Buttons who heard from Avenged Sevenfold who heard from Tom who heard from Snoop who had been spying on Arcee we’re going on a top-secret mission!”

“You shouldn’t believe anything that comes out of Snoop’s mouth,” Steve said.

Everyone knew Snoop was cracked in the head. The Vehicon believed that Megatron would change his mind and return to restore glory to the Decepticon cause. He was constantly on the lookout for weaknesses amongst their ‘interim leaders’. The only reason Snoop wasn’t sitting in the brig with the remaining dissenters was his cowardly incompetence. 

“Sometimes Snoop is right!” Billy said, “Remember how he said Lord Megatron was gonna come back? And he _did_!”

“Yeah, but he always does that.” Steve said, “There’s no reason for Commander Arcee to take us on a ‘top-secret mission’. We’re no better than the other Vehicons. If anything, Commander Arcee would take Buttons over either of us.”

“ _Buttons_?” Billy scoffed, “Buttons is _dumber_ than Snoop! He’s always changing his name! And his paint! He can’t tell his head from his ass! _I’m_ the fastest Vehicon!”

“Yeah, but you barely follow orders.” Steve got off the bed and opened the door. With Billy amped up, there was no point in lazing around in bed. He entered the hall and Billy trailed after him. Other Vehicons walked by, coming off the night shift or heading to the morning one.

“It’s not my fault my ears are faulty.” Billy insisted.

“Your ears aren’t faulty. You just hate listening.”

“Like you’re so _perfect_!” Billy’s wings flicked in irritation. “Just 'cause you’re Commander Bulkhead’s favorite, you think that you’re hot shit! I bet you’re angling for a _promotion_.”

Steve didn’t know about being anyone’s favorite. He just followed orders and did the best he could. As for the other accusation, he couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Billy, we’re _Vehicons_. We don’t get _promoted_.”

The best a Vehicon could hope for was being useful enough to avoid being melted down, experimented on, or having parts harvested for high command.

“It can happen!” Billy insisted, “Autobots are _way_ different than Lord—er, Starscream. They…listen to us. It’s so _weird_. You remember how mean Gamma was to me? Well, she’s on scrubbing duty for the rest of the week! Before I’d get hit with something for bothering Starscream with something unimportant. Or not moving fast enough. Or being in the room. Or standing too close to Starscream when Megatron shot him.”

Proximity to Starscream had caused more Vehicon deaths than the Autobots ever did. It was why Steve had taken to standing far away from the former Second in Command. 

When they approached the washracks, a line had already formed. Vehicons stood in disorganized clumps, talking and craning their heads to see how slow the line would be moving today.

Steve took his position at the back, giving a friendly flick of the wings to the nearest Vehicon. The Vehicon, in response, moved away. A few others in the line took long glances at Steve and some muttered about being late for morning shift before walking off. The line began moving only because other Vehicons were doing their best to keep space between Steve and themselves. Once Steve got to the washracks, it was just Billy and him in the corridor.

“Okay,” Steve said, “what gives?”

“Uh.” Billy’s wings nervously flicked up and down. “W-what are you talking about? This is normal!”

Billy was used to being an outcast but not Steve. Steve could always get a crummy joke out of Hikaru or endure Tiffany’s long rambles about fashion. Now no one would look in his direction, as if the sight of Steve would give them cancer of the eyeballs.

“ _Billy_.” Steve growled.

“Okay, okay!” Billy muttered, “It’s just, that, you know. You’ve been weird lately. And not just the electricity thing! You’re… _different_ now.” He fiddled with his spindly talons, “ _I’m_ okay with it but some of the others…aren’t. They’re…uh, what’s that word humans use? Squirr-ee?”

“Squirrely.” Steve sighed.

He should have known this would happen. Vehicons weren’t idiots, but they weren’t very bright either. There was no sugarcoating that they were disposal drones spat out from the cloning tanks and shoved onto the field to swell the ranks. They had no hometowns, childhood memories, and most didn’t have the mental capacity for comprehending or understanding religion. The only thing that uniting the fleet (or what remained of it) was that they were all the same. Same frametype and layout. Everything the same except for their sparks.

And except for Steve. And that was _terrifying_ to them. As alien as the humans crawling all over planet Earth.

So, Steve was an outcast now…but who _gave_ a fuck? The others could hate him as much as they wanted, but they had no choice but to obey him. Most Vehicons still couldn’t aim if their life depended on it and those that could were incapable of forming a basic battle plan. They had to either defer to Steve and as long as they kept doing that, it wouldn’t interfere with Steve’s efficiency as a soldier.

That was the only thing that mattered.

Steve said nothing of the revelation and ignored the puppy dog eyes Billy was giving him. Billy was all about conversation. He was desperate to have Steve gush about his feelings of isolation and exhaustion. Unfortunately for Billy, Steve wasn’t about that life. He went under the washrack pipes and turned on the solvent. Liquid ran between his feet, making small rivers.

_Liquid ran between his pedes, making small rivers. It was vivid blue like the sky over Gaia on a clear day. Energon drizzled down and the drops that didn’t fall on them fell through the metal grate they stood on. Drips and drops of life fluid hit the churning water far, far below. He wanted to scream—to clamor up the walls of the pit and go on the attack—but each limb weighed a thousandfold. It felt like gravity itself had turned against him._

_All he could do was move his helm and gaze upon the shadows high above them. His optics were weakening and his system regulating to low-resolution lights and shadows. Even in low power mode, he could make out a frame strung up above them, impaled with hooks and chains. Was this poor spark someone he knew or just another garish ornament to this torture chamber masquerading as a courtroom?_

_He strained to remember and was rewarded with a processor ache. He was pinged for more fuel. More comfort. More things he could no longer provide._

_“Please…”_

_That plea again. The same plea he had heard every cycle since he had come here. The violet optics were beside him, never leaving him. A frail servo reached out, riddled with rust infection and breaking apart with each twitch._

_“End this…”_

Billy’s hand grazed his shoulder. Steve yelped, jerking out of the mech’s reach. The solvent had turned cold, running down Steve’s body in icy rivulets. He stuttered a few words and then fell onto the tiled floor. His body shuddered and not just from the cold solvent.

“Steve?” Billy asked. Steve didn’t answer and Billy shut off the solvent. He knelt beside his fellow Vehicon. “Steve, a-answer me! Please!”

“I function.” Steve said but his voice was full of static and his entire frame was shaking. He swallowed, spat out the words. “I still function.”

“Steve, it's getting worse!” Billy fretted, “We have to tell someone. There’s something _wrong_ with our brains. You’re not the only one anymore--”

“No!” Steve snarled, “You _know_ what will happen.”

The Autobots are nice but they still expect the Vehicons to do their jobs. A Vehicon that can’t fight is good as slag. The Autobots will smile and assure the useless ones that they’ll find another purpose, only to be strapped down to a dissecting table to figure out the source of the ‘disturbance’. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened, and Steve wasn’t going to let it ever happen again. No matter how bad things got.

“ _We_ still function.” Steve insisted.

Billy mumbled but said nothing else. Forcing Steve to visit Knockout was an aberration in the mech’s behavior.

He could be determined and stubborn but unless he felt there was true danger, he fell into line. It wasn’t like Billy had anyone else who would tolerate his presence for more than a few minutes. He said nothing and dried off with Steve before leaving the washracks for the commissary.

The visit to the commissary was brief because Snoop was (for the first time in Steve’s memory) right about an incoming mission. Steve only had tip to sip at his energon before Eleanor informed Billy and him to come along for a mission briefing.

The mission briefing was held in one of the smaller meeting rooms, which the Vehicons had to squeeze in along with Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Nickel, and the human called Ralph or Raf (to Steve’s knowledge). Commander Arcee stood next to the display screen that took up the entire wall, displaying a low-resolution map fuzzed with jpeg artifacts and bit-crushed scribbles. Between trying to discern what the hell they were even looking at, there was also a large watermark in the center stating: _Drawn by Smokescreen, shaded by Smokescreen, colored by Smokescreen_ and in the corner, in the tiniest font possible, was _with help from Ratchet._

“This is a map of Luna-2’s surface,” Arcee said. To the femme’s credit, she wasn’t scowling at the ridiculous excuse of a map being displayed. “Since the satellite records were destroyed during the War, we have to use what remained in the Autobot server and Ratchet’s memory files.”

Smokescreen cleared his throat. Arcee glanced in his direction and sighed.

“And Smokescreen would like you to know he’s available for commissions,” Arcee added.

“I’ll draw anything!” Smokescreen said.

“…. _really_?” Buttons said. The Vehicon sat behind Steve and his voice dipped into an octave Steve found mildly concerning.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Arcee continued, “we believe that the satellite array is located here.” She enhanced and highlighted a cluster of grey squares. “This is Moonbase Two. During the Golden Age, it was the center of communications and shipping for Cybertron. It was also where the first Rust Plague began, which lead to its abandonment before the War.”

The Vehicons looked at one another, having their private comms and thoughts. None of them would take the initiative to ask a question so it was up to Steve to raise his hand. 

“Steve, you don’t have to raise your hand,” Arcee said with a hint of a patient smile.

“R-really? Okay. Well.” Steve said, “If the Rust Plague started a long time ago how do we know the satellites are still functioning?”

“We don’t.” Wheeljack said, “Once Moonbase Two was finished, it was maintained by drones. When the Rust Plague started, most bots were quarantined on Cybertron. Drones may have been running smoothly until now, so we’re gonna check.”

“B-but what’s this about a Rust Plague?” Billy mumbled, “Can it come back?”

“There hasn’t been an outbreak since the Golden Age but vermin might carry it,” Bulkhead said, “Nasty thing can stay active inside a host so we’ll have to tiptoe around this place.”

“Which is why I’m stuck with _you_ idiots.” Nickel grumbled. The surly minibot was too short to sit in a regular chair, so she was perched on a stack of boxes.

“Consider it a show of good faith, ‘Con,” Arcee grumbled. Nickel rolled her eyes and Arcee continued, “We’ll be taking the _Jackhammer_ to Moonbase Two and landing at the old spaceport Cartr. It’s a mountainous region so we’ll move on pede through the Valley of Kolt to the communications hub. There are two parts to the hub: the satellite field and the terminal.”

The human placed a Cybertronian-sized flashdrive on the table. For human hands, it was the size of a water bottle.

“Once you get there, you’ll reset the satellite with this.” Raf said, “Wheeljack and me whipped up a program that should re-establish the connection to the Nemesis’ communication program. Once you plug it in, I’ll reestablish the connection from here. It might take a while since we’re working with your equivalent of a dial-up connection.”

Wheeljack blinked and then looked at Raf. “How do you know about that piece of adware from Rootkit Magazine?”

“Ugh. The less said about Dial-Up the better.” Bulkhead muttered.

“Okay, humans have the term ‘adware’ but the context in which you’re using it tells me it’s not the same thing--” Raf said.

“And the less said about that the better!” Arcee insisted, “Anyway, are there any questions? Concerns?”

“Why can’t _Knockout_ go instead of me?” Nickel groused, “He’s already swallowed your Aftbot scrap about peace and togetherness or _whatever_.”

“Knockout isn’t cleared to leave the base and this is a trust-building exercise,” Arcee said, “If we’re going to rebuild Cybertron, we need to achieve…common ground.” She said the latter word as if it was the most profane obscenity in the Cybertronian language.

“Bah.” Nickel jumped off the box stack. “Let’s get this slag over with already!” She huffed and then skated out the door.

“Go, team. I guess.” Bulkhead said.

Arcee grumbled and switched off the screen. Steve had a feeling the commander was looking forward to this mission as much as the minibot was.

* * *

The ride to Luna-2 was no more comfortable than the meeting room. The Jackhammer was intended for three standards or two oversized Cybertronians. Instead of being sensible, they had crammed in one minibot, two standards, one oversized, and six Vehicons. To say it was a little cramped was an understatement, but that mattered little to Vehicons. They were used to being smushed against each other like sardines in a can. They sat in the far back of the ship in the cargo area while their commanders talked amongst themselves in the cockpit.

Hikaru was trying to convince Eleanor that Luna-2 was populated by little green minibots. Buttons and Pearl were debating if they should pick _Event Horizon_ or _Mimic_ for movie night. Billy was looking over a datapad (and likely dying for Steve to ask him what it was about). Steve was a little too tired for conversation. He looked through the porthole; Cybertron was steadily moving away as it was cradled in the black hands of space.

_He looked through the porthole; Cybertron was steadily moving away as it was cradled in the black servos of space. They were too far away to take notice of the satellite clutter and astral debris._

_“We’ve finally arrived.” The voice in his audial was smug, pleased with itself beyond words._

_His optic looked at his companion, but he was a mass of jagged squares and chromatic aberrations. The air around him shimmered in a halo of compression artifacts._

_“This is only the beginning of our glorious rise,” they said._

_“It’s_ just _a job,_ _■■■_ _.” He said, but the designation came out as jagged and broken as the person beside him._

_Rather than get an elbow to the ribs for mentioning the hated nickname, servos slide along his hips._

_“Don’t call me that,” the voice hissed, “and you can downplay this all you want, but this is still an important step.”_

_Embarrassment flooded his systems. He looked around the corridors, heard pede steps far off but approaching. “■■■■■_ _, we’re in the_ hall _!”_

_“As if these cowards will say a word against their commander.” His companion scoffed. His vocalizer transitioned smoothly from annoyed to gloating to playful that it was giving him whiplash. Eager fingers stroked at his interface array._

_He wanted to protest but by the gods, was it hard to resist._

_“Just…” he panted, “…let’s just make it quick.”_

“Hey, One-eyed, One-horned Flying Purple People Eater!” Nickel said.

“W-whazzat?” Steve sat up with a snort. Did he doze off? Shit, he shouldn’t be doing that on a mission, even if they were just waiting in the cargo area.

The other Vehicons did their best to not look at Nickel. Even Billy appeared tense, keeping his arms and talons folded close to his body. It was bad enough to have a medic on the mission but to have her full attention was even worse.

“D-did you need something from me, ma’am?” Steve asked.

Nickel frowned and wheeled closer. Her hand reached out but Steve flinched from it.

“I-I’m sorry!” Steve said, “I’ll do better.”

“Hey, take it easy.” Nickel said. For such a loudmouthed femme, her voice went soft as fleece. “I’m not going to hit you. I just want a closer look at your faceplate.”

“Oh? Okay…”

Steve had to bend over so the small ‘Con could observe him. Every second he fought the urge to cower or beg for his life. The minicon must have understood Steve’s discomfort because she quickly stopped touching. She removed a laser pointer from her subspace and instructed Steve to follow the light.

“How long have you been suffering from insomnia?” Nickel asked.

“I don’t have insomnia. Whatever that is.” Steve said.

“It means you haven’t been recharging completely.”

Rather than admit the truth, Steve said, “I’m used to working on a few minutes. It’s fine.”

Nickel’s frown dipped even lower. Steve hoped that she would drop the whole thing, but it was just his luck that Arcee would enter the cargo area.

“What’s going on back here?” Arcee asked, “We’re almost at the base.”

Nickel spun on her wheels, facing the taller femme.

“You’re running your troops ragged!” Nickel said, “You’re more worried about your stupid communications array than your workers.” She glared at the other Vehicons. “I bet all your grunts have been worked to the bone. So much for Aftbot ‘equality’.”

“What are you talking about?” Arcee looked at Steve, “Steve. You saw Knockout for a tune-up, right?”

“Uh.” Steve began, “I-I did. But you know. Things happen.”

“Uh-huh.” Arcee moved her eyes from Steve to another Vehicon, “ _Billy_.”

Now that he had Arcee’s attention, Billy emitted a nervous squeak.

“Spill it,” Arcee ordered.

“I don’t know anything!” Billy wailed, his wings quivering.

“Stop it!” Nickel moved between Arcee and the other Vehicons. “They’re not the ones you should be yelling at!”

“Stop acting like I’m the bad guy here!” Arcee growled.

“As far as I’m concerned, you are!” Nickel said.

“Uh, guys?” Bulkhead called from the cockpit, “You might wanna come take a look at _…this_.”

Steve was the first to get up, moving around the femmes as he rushed to the cockpit. The argument between the femmes ceased as the others followed. Immediately everyone’s eyes went to the cockpit screen displaying the surface of Luna-2 miles below them.

What had once been a craggy grey marble was wrapped in metallic webbing; hills and valleys sunk under heaps of silk. As the ship eased closer, purple electricity moved through the strands. The few areas not covered in silk looked gooey but still Cybertronian, like a metal slime mold.

“No.” Arcee whispered, “No no no no--” The Autobot commander trembled. 

“Getting some readings now.” Wheeljack hadn’t moved from the pilot’s seat, keeping his eyes on the dashboard. “Luna-2’s atmospheric temperature is up and it's putting out waves of radiation.”

“Is it dark energon?” Bulkhead asked.

“Dark energon? That’s real?” Nickel muttered.

“The readings are _way_ too dense to be dark energon.” Wheeljack said, “Makes me think on that stuff the Doc cooked up in his lab that one time.”

Someone tugged on Steve’s hand and he turned. Steve had been so unnerved about the sight of Luna-2 that he hadn’t seen Billy move in close.

“Steve.” Billy whispered, “Steve. It’s _her_! _She’s_ on the moon!”

“Her?” Arcee asked. Billy looked away but the femme moved closer to him, “What are you talking about?”

“I-it was a thing!” Billy stammered. His wings nervously flicked--up-down, up-down in an unsteady rhythm. “I-it was killing everyone b-but then it was gone.”

“The pit are you talking about?” Bulkhead asked.

“It doesn’t matter. We’re aborting.” Arcee said, “Wheeljack, take us back to the _Nemesis_. We’ll…figure this out there.”

“What? But we’ve made it this far!” Wheeljack said.

Arcee shook her head. “I don’t like this.” She said, “It’s too…there’s too much we _don’t_ know.”

“Are you kidding me?” Wheeljack groaned, “You would’ve leapt at an opportunity like this before!” 

“We don’t have enough intel!” Arcee insisted.

Bulkhead placed a hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder. “Jackie, c’mon. Stand down--”

Wheeljack shrugged off the hand and looked Arcee in the eye. “We’re here to figure out what’s going on! Just because we’re at peace doesn’t mean we turn into cowards!”

“I’m your commanding officer and _I order you to turn this Primus-damned ship around--_ ”

“What the frag?” Nickel yelled, pointing at the cockpit window.

A black cloud was racing toward there. No, it was far denser than a cloud—a swarm of Terrorcons pulsating with purple corruption. The beasts slammed the ship’s front and sides, ramming their frames into the engines. Through the porthole, Steve could see sparks and smoke splutter. A klaxon screamed just as the engines struggled, sputtered, and finally gave out. The ship tilted forward, and Steve knew in that moment that they were plummeting, seized by the moon’s gravity.

The alarms mounted, screaming errors that bounced around the small cockpit. Outside the Terrorcons raged, pounding the ship and splintering windows. Metal and glass shattered as black claws tore through the ship. Air hissed as the ship lost pressure and air escaped into the void. Steve didn’t know what would kill them first: the impact of hitting the lunar surface or the creatures.

Arcee shouted safety procedures. Bulkhead ordered everyone to crowd around him since his frame could take the most punishment. Nickel had gone still as stone and Billy was crying (which was impressive, for someone without eyes, face, or mouth). Steve sat between them. He was surrounded by screaming but there was no fear in his spark. He was beyond terror now. This was not his first time staring down death.

_This was not his first time staring down death. The mechanism clanked and the floor gave way. They plummeted down, hitting the surface with a loud splash. The water was already churning and still thick with the sheen of energon. Shadows raced through the depths—full of sharp teeth, fresh innards, and hunger. He was too weak to swim, couldn’t fend for himself, but he still had words. The purple optics gazed at him, the predators swarming about them._

_“I’ll save you…”_

_Saltwater was filling his intake, choking him with its bitter tang. He gargled, thrashing through the water. Pain lanced along his arms and legs. His frame was starved and his processor fuzzy but his base programming knew he was being pulled apart, consumed by the creatures in the water. Energon filled the surrounding water—_ his _energon. His vision was darkening but still, the purple eyes gazed. They kept gazing until they sank beneath the dark water._

_“Hold on!”_

_If he was not beaten, starved, and beyond exhaustion, he would be screaming. He could not even bring himself to fight against his aquatic assailants. He gave another hoarse cry._

_“I’ll save you!”_

_He had to save him._

He had to save them.

The remaining air within the cockpit crackled with electricity. The charge that had been building since that morning finally let loose. The sky cracked in half and Steve plunged into darkness.


	26. Arcee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Luna-2! Please enjoy our courtesy Terrorcons and ladybots and Vehicons doing the best they can to keep everyone alive in these tough times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: this general chapter isn't pleasant. body horror, npc death, serious injury, terrorcons, and things really ramp up at "aquatron" with genocide and slavery

> **There are worse ways to get to Luna-2 than crashing on the surface, such as taking the Carnival Space Cruise and contracting cyber-norovirus from the All You Can Eat Buffet. It also costs a lot less.**

Arcee had a fast processor but even it lacked the speed to comprehend everything going wrong at the same time. The creatures ramming the ship, the hull breach, the quickly approaching lunar surface, and the ship being torn from gravity and monstrous claws. Bulkhead had tried to grab Arcee but the turbulence was too much. She slipped from his grasp just as the _Jackhammer_ cracked in half. A black and purple claw grabbed her by the shoulder pauldron, trying to drag her outside into space.

Then the _boom_ came.

Electricity moved across Arcee’s plating in waves. The claw that had dug furrows into her armor released. The creatures screamed and scrambled away, falling from the ship. Electricity was still crackling and popping across Arcee’s frame. Her visuals scrambled, filling up with a mishmash of primitive Cybertronian code and pixelized images and then darkness. The last coherent sensation was that of gravity pulling them down.

* * *

“Wake up! C’mon, you stubborn idiot! You can’t be _this_ breakable!”

With a shimmer of jumbled code and steadily upgrading resolution, Arcee’s optics onlined. Her vision was heavily pixelated until her sensors adjusted it to the darkness. A splintered crack ran across her left optic. Nickel was staring down at her, looking torn between concern and irritation.

“We have to stop meeting like this…” Arcee choked, her voice full of static.

“At least you’re conscious.” Nickel sighed. The small femme got behind her and helped her sit up. Arcee moved slowly, fighting off the increasing pressure of an oncoming processor ache.

They were in the remains of the _Jackhammer’_ s cockpit. The ship’s front was mostly intact while the cockpit rear had broken off, scattered around the area in chunks. Outside the shattered area was silken darkness—a thick silver-metal, cobwebbed mass that buried all landmarks of the lunar surface. For a once inhabited moon, the temperature was chilly even for a Cybertronian. Without a heated spacesuit, a human would have frozen to death within seconds.

Two Vehicons sat at the further end of the broken area. She recognized the purple and black one as Steve from the badge pinned to his chest and the silver and red one as Billy. Steve laid on the ground with his helm in Billy’s lap. The purple and black Vehicon twitched and murmured as Billy stroked his helm.

“Status update,” Arcee said. Nickel scowled and looked prepared to tell Arcee she wasn’t one of her ‘Aftbots’, until Arcee added, “I mean, what happened? I remember the ship falling apart and then there was this… _boom_.”

Nickel’s plating eased down and then the minicon sighed.

“I don’t know.” Nickel admitted, “Those… _things_ were getting into the ship.” She looked to Steve, “Steve grabbed Billy and me and he started revving up…I thought he was going to fly but then he… _I_ felt electricity, and then the _boom_ happened. I was so close I had to reset my audials.”

“ _What_?” Billy yelled, _“What are you saying?”_

“Billy’s still hasn’t reset.” Nickel sighed.

“Wait, you said a ‘boom’ happened?” Arcee asked. Nickel nodded, still looking uneasy.

Arcee sifted through her memory files. The description resembled a sonic boom but those involved speed and sound, not electricity (though that was going by Arcee’s limited knowledge). There were also no functioning bots with the ability to go from zero to breaking the speed of sound.

“But who caused it?” Arcee asked.

“No idea, but it made those _things_ turn cyber-tail. At least for now.” Nickel mumbled.

The little ‘Con was somber. She was still glaring at Arcee, but it was less hatred and more suspicion. Arcee doubted Nickel had forgotten their previous argument concerning the Vehicons.

“It won’t stay that way for long,” Arcee said.

Arcee’s processor still ached but she pushed through the pain. She studied her memory files right up to the mysterious boom that had helped in tearing their ship apart. She could only find a single frame that had a clear image of the creatures that had attacked them. From the strength and speed, Arcee had assumed they were standard Insecticons, but these were far different. The creatures’ optics had an unsettling purple glow, and their frames were riddled with spikes jutting out from the seams. They emitted a glow that Arcee had only seen in her nightmares. 

“Terrorcons,” Arcee concluded.

“What nows?” Nickel asked.

“They’re…” Arcee hesitated to explain a ‘zombie’ to someone unfamiliar with Earth culture. “Cybertronians whose sparks have gone out but thanks to dark energon, they’re still living. Still hungry. We can’t stay here.” If Arcee was human, she would be sweating. Instead, anxiety strangled her heart. “Terrorcons don’t eat and they don’t sleep. They’ll find us eventually.”

“Great. Just when I thought rainbow-puke colored ponies were the worst I had to deal with…” Nickel muttered.

As the small medic started working on Billy’s audials, Arcee worked her comm. Contacting the _Nemesis_ was out of the question but she picked up Bulkhead’s signature. It was slow but not too far from their location. 

**ARCEE: where r u**

**BULKHEAD: NO CLUE JACKIE BUTTONS & ME ARE HOLED UP IN A CAVE**

**BULKHEAD: JACKIE IS DINGED UP P BADLY**

_Serves the surly afthole right,_ Arcee thought but brushed that aside. She’d chew out Wheeljack once they were out of this mess.

**ARCEE: well find u once we get squared away + we got nickel 4 repairs**

**BULKHEAD: ALRIGHT WELL HOLD DOWN THE FORT**

**BULKHEAD: & RC**

**ARCEE: what**

**BULKHEAD: ITS GONNA BE OK**

Arcee couldn’t help but smile. Just like Bulkhead to be more worried about his teammates than his safety. She swore the mech had a bigger spark than Optimus.

**ARCEE: yeah**

**ARCEE: its gonna be okay**

Things were most certainly not going to be okay. A standard Insecticon was already tough to kill. Arcee didn’t need Prowl’s processing power to know the odds against them were high now that dark energon was in the mix.

“Sweet Unicron sucking a spike, this processor is wretched!” Nickel grumbled.

The minicon was standing on a chair she dragged over to Billy so she could get a look at his processor without having to stand on the Vehicon’s shoulder pauldrons. Billy’s helm was unscrewed and the mech was fiddling with talons as Nickel tinkered with the insides of his helm. Arcee winced, questioning how the mech could be conscious during the process. Did he not have pain receptors there or was he simply used to the mockery that Decepticons called medical care?

“You complain about how we treat our soldiers and then you go around opening their helms while they’re still conscious?” Arcee asked.

“I wouldn’t _have_ to open it if these guys had regular ports.” Nickel said, “What lazy afthole designed these frames? No easy access ports, no interface array, and these processors look like they’ve been glued together from what was lying around. _Look_ at this thing.”

Arcee slowly got to her pedes and walked next to the minicon. Nickel pointed to a circuit board inside Billy’s helm as if Arcee knew what a bot’s cybernetic innards meant. When Arcee gave Nickel a clueless look, the minibot huffed.

“Misfire plays handhelds that are better put together than this!” Nickel said. She squinted at Billy. “Can you even look around without screen-tearing?”

“Screen tearing?” Billy asked, “Oooh, do you mean those lines you get when you move your head fast? They’re cool!”

“I bet these poor fraggers are still running Unreal Engine 3 and using a Havok armament UI system.” Nickel sighed, “No _wonder_ their aim is terrible.”

“We upgraded them as much as we could but we’re not experts.” Arcee said, “Shockwave heavily coded any notes about their construction and hid them all over his labs. We haven’t had the time to decode _or_ uncover them all.”

“Shockwave?” Nickel asked, “You mean Misfire’s uncle?”

“Shockwave built us!” Billy said, “Or, uh, cloned us. Forged us? I dunno.”

“These Vehicons were the bulk of the Decepticon army.” Arcee said, “Since Megatron disbanded the Decepticons, they were left on the _Nemesis._ We took the Vehicons in; gave them names and everything.”

“Vehicons…” Nickel mulled over the word. She looked back to Billy, “You didn’t have names before this?”

“Nope!” Billy said. There was no lack of cheer in his voice, as he was glad to have a captive audience. “I was Y33T until the ‘Bots said we can pick names. We got a book of names and everything! Some of us still have trouble with it, like Buttons. He can’t decide if he wants that or something ‘cooler’.”

“That’s Buttons for you,” Arcee chuckled. Arcee had done a lot of searching and second-guessing to pick out her designation.

Nickel didn’t add to the conversation. She stared into the wall as if the various dents would have medical advice.

“You didn’t know about this?” Arcee asked.

“No,” Nickel muttered.

That was…odd. Vehicons were everywhere in the Decepticon army. Even if they weren’t present in colonies or warships, former soldiers always mentioned them (often referring to their incompetence).

“Which Decepticon colony are you from?” Arcee asked.

“We don’t have all day to chat.” Nickel shut Billy’s helm and made her way down the chair. She rolled next to Steve, who was still unconscious. “Shouldn’t we be looking for your friends?”

Arcee supposed there was no point in leading an equinoid to water if they weren’t going to drink. If Nickel didn’t want to talk, it was against Arcee’s best interest to interrogate their only medic. Now that Billy’s audials were functioning, Arcee quizzed the skittish Vehicon on what the slag was going on. 

“So, let me get this straight.” Arcee said after Billy’s long and expository tale of the _Nemesis’_ s Terrorcon infestation, “An experiment went horribly wrong and infected the Insecticons with dark _and_ synthetic energon, turning them into hyped-up Terrorcons and then _Airachnid_ got infected as well? And then Shockwave, rather than _killing_ her, _bridged_ her somewhere?”

Billy nodded. “Yup! That about sums it up.”

Great. Another problem caused by dark energon. If Arcee ever became Prime, she was going to destroy every crystal remaining in the universe.

“How come you didn’t bring this up before?” Arcee asked.

“Um.” Billy looked down, “’Cause… _I’m_ the only one that remembers.”

Arcee shuttered her optics and, just to be certain, reset her audials.

“ _What_?” Arcee asked.

“It’s true!” Billy insisted and his wings began nervously flapping. “I’m the only one who saw everything. Everyone else died and when they got re-cloned they didn’t remember. Well, maybe some of them _kinda_ remember. I still get nightmares…” He shuddered.

“But how did _you_ survive?”

Billy’s shoulder pauldrons slumped.

“I…hid,” Billy mumbled. As if sensing oncoming judgment, the Vehicon quickly added, “Steve made me hide though!” His wings flapped turned irritable as he continued, “There was a lot of screaming and laserfire so we knew things were getting bad. Steve told me to hide in the vents and wait for him. So, I waited…and he didn’t come back. I crawled around the vents to see what was going on and I saw Steve but…it wasn’t him. I could _feel_ it wasn’t him. Like, _here_.”

Steve touched the center of his chassis, where his spark was. “I thought he would sniff me out, but he passed by. All of them did. It was like they couldn’t see me even though I was right above them. I kept crawling around to tell Lord, er, Starscream but Knockout and him were shooting everyone and then _Megatron_ showed up and it was…bad.”

The Vehicon trembled once again. Out of all the Vehicons, Billy was the only one who didn’t hide his feelings: fear, courage, excitement—it was always apparent with the mech.

“Terrorcons are single-minded creatures,” Arcee said, “They can detect energon from far distances. Why didn’t they detect you?”

To this, Billy could only shrug.

Arcee made a memo ( _Billy—possible cloaker?_ ) for when they returned to the _Nemesis._

“You said everyone who died was re-cloned?” Arcee continued, “How could they not remember something like that? You’d think getting killed by a Terrorcon would stick out in memory.”

“I dunno.” Once again, Billy shrugged. “No one remembered the Terrorcons on the ship. When I told them, they said I was making it up or that I dreamt it. Others went funny too like they’d forget their designations or the things they liked.” He looked at Steve, who was still unconscious and being repaired by Nickel. “Steve…Steve’s changed _so much._ First, it was the shocks and now he keeps having bad nightmares.”

“What happens in it?”

Billy shook his helm. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, but he freaks out every time we’re in the washracks. I think it’s the water, er, solvent. Oh, and there’s this…place. Out in the city.” Another shudder. “It’s a weird place. Steve and me hate it. Or maybe I’m scared? I dunno. It makes me sick to my stomach, uh, tank. And it's not just us!” A nervous flicker from the wings. “Others are scared too. Partridge full-on panics near it and won’t move.”

Billy was likely referring to the déjà vu Bumblebee had mentioned in his patrol reports. It was a hole in their security detail that annoyed Arcee but now it had taken on another meaning. What could cause instinctual panic in clones who (allegedly) had no base coding to adhere to? Could one of Shockwave’s labs be hidden in that location?

Steve grunted. His optical panel flickered before finally lighting up. Nickel moved away from the Vehicon, having removed the most damaging dents and sealed the sparking cracks.

“Wha’ happun…?” Steve slurred. With the help of the aqua-colored minibot, he rolled onto his side.

“I have no idea, but you’re functioning.” Nickel said.

That was all the information Billy needed. The grey Vehicon scrambled to his pedes and ran over to Steve, flopping onto him and wrapping his skinny arms around Steve’s black frame.

 _“You’re alive!”_ Billy squealed.

Steve grunted but he was laughing along with Billy. “There’s no way you missed me this much.”

“You’re an idiot!” Billy huffed and refused to untangle himself from the other Vehicon.

“How are you feeling, Steve?” Arcee asked.

Steve’s entire frame went rigid as if his shocks all shattered at once. He sat up so quickly that he almost shoved Billy off him.

“I’m fine, commander!” Steve insisted through a pained grunt. He did his best to salute while Billy was still wrapped around him. “I-I still function. What are your orders?”

“Steve, it’s okay.” Arcee approached the Vehicon and sat in front of him. If the Vehicon was in less pain, he would have inched away from her like he usually did. “We’re not going to scrap you because you’re having trouble. You’re one of us and Autobots help each other.”

“Yeah…but…really?” If Steve had a proper faceplate, it would be perplexed. “If I’m not functioning right, what good am I as a soldier? I’m just a waste of resources and space that could go to another, better soldier--”

“Steve, you’re more than a soldier to us.” Arcee touched his shoulder-pauldron. “I won’t lie and say that I’m not annoyed you didn’t tell us what was going on earlier, but I understand why you did. The Decepticons only saw you as a tool. When tools break, people get rid of them. But you’re not a tool. You’re a sentient being who deserves the same rights as everyone else. That’s what the Autobots stand for.”

Steve fidgeted and for once, looked just as unsteady as Billy could be when he was at his most excited. Eventually, the black Vehicon sighed.

“If you say so, commander,” Steve muttered. 

“Just call me, Arcee.” Arcee said, “Are you alright to move?”

Steve nodded and, with Billy’s help, got to his pedes. Once he was upright, the Vehicon seemed to be able to walk on his own.

“Ready and willing, commander,” Steve said.

Arcee turned on her tracking program. It was short-range, but it would give her some idea of Bulkhead’s current position. As the large mech had said, he wasn’t far from them; roughly two or three miles at the most.

“We can get to Bulkhead if we move quietly.” Arcee looked at Billy. “Billy, the Terrorcons can’t detect you. Are you up for scouting ahead?”

Billy saluted. “Ready, commander!”

Steve looked at Arcee. His wings gave a slight twitch but he steadied. “Commander, uh, Arcee, are you sure?”

“Steve, I can do this.” Billy huffed.

“Yeah, but this is your first time by yourself--” Steve insisted.

“I’m still a soldier!” Billy grumbled and without another word, the Vehicon walked out of the _Jackhammer’s_ broken cockpit.

With Billy scouting ahead, Arcee was able to get a better sense of their surroundings. They were in a small valley, surrounded by tall, jagged mountains. At some point the area had been a town as there were abandoned stores and hotels built into the mountain base. Any buildings not built into the landscape had been torn down and their frames marked with Terrorcon teeth and claws.

High above them, silk stretched across the mountains, its layers clouding the sky. The only breakage in the overhead silk blanket was where the _Jackhammer_ had torn through it during the crash. Occasionally purple electricity would flicker through the silk as if sending power to a great engine.

The only surface that lacked silk was the ground, but that had been altered differently. Slime coated the ground, the color of motor oil, and the consistency of a custard that had failed to set and was steadily becoming runnier with time. The slick terrain was also impossible for Nickel to roll through and Steve was still recovering, so the surly Minicon hitched a ride on Arcee’s back.

“Why are you so _pointy_?” Nickel asked, “You got all these random spikes on your shoulder! It's like hugging a space-porcupine.”

“Sorry I didn’t pack a little purse to carry you in,” Arcee grumbled. With each step, Arcee fought the urge to cringe. The muck also had a strange odor—one of that reminded her of Earth but in what way, she couldn’t describe.

“I’m not your pet!” Nickel hissed.

“You bark like one,” Arcee grunted.

In the distance, blasters went off. Arcee squeezed between a narrow chasm leading away from the abandoned trade town, entering another valley. This one was riddled with small caverns, more akin to slagbeetle boreholes than the emptied stores in the previous town. The other half of the _Jackhammer_ had smashed against the mountain wall, splitting and scattering across the area. Bulkhead stood at the mouth of the cave, firing at five Terrorcons. Billy had already transformed, raining down lasers on the Terrorcons as a jet.

Arcee had never been one to linger during battle. While three Terrorcons were occupied attacking Bulkhead, Arcee fired at the two furthest away from Bulkhead. The Terrorcons screeched, turning to Arcee. Now she had their full, enraged attention. Arcee knew she couldn’t match their speed with Nickel clinging to her like a grumpy backpack.

“Bulkhead! Go long!” Arcee yelled over the noise of battle.

Bulkhead fired two more blasts into a Terrorcon. One went down, finally shot through the spark but another was trying to move closer to Bulkhead.

“Ready!” Bulkhead called.

“You better not do what I _think_ you’re--” Nickel yelled.

Arcee grabbed Nickel and lobbed the minibot through the air like a foul-mouthed football. The minicon screamed the entire way but Bulkhead caught her. All those times playing lob-ball with Miko finally paid off. With the weight of Nickel off her, Arcee dove into battle. It took most of her shots to bring down one Terrorcon but two more showed up. Above them, violet electricity danced through the silk, as if it were calling the creatures.

“There’s too many of them!” Billy said after another laser barrage from above.

If someone as dense as Billy could recognize trouble, they were really in the slag.

Arcee shot another Terrorcon but there was no clear path to the cave. Terrorcons were still popping up, screaming for fresh energon. Some only arrived to dive on their fallen comrades, tearing through their plating to siphon energon directly from their fuel pumps.

“We need a plan!” Arcee shouted.

Steve lifted his helm. He remained close to Arcee’s back, exhausted but still able to aim. He panted as if psyching himself up for a triathlon, and then looked to Arcee. 

“Clear out!” Steve ordered.

Arcee did so, tumbling to the sidelines of the battle. Bulkhead and Nickel retreated to the cave and Billy landed, following them inside. Steve barreled through a crowd of Terrorcons. Arcee watched at the Vehicon rammed one and then it happened.

_Boom!_

Electricity and force knocked into Arcee. She skidded across the slime and dirt mixed ground, only stopped by the wall of the rocky hillside encircling them. The shockwaves tore through the small canyon, ripping hanging silk and bouncing against the rocks. Violet electricity popped and then fizzled out. The Terrorcons screamed and flew away as if confronted by a colossal bug zapper. The only ones not fleeing were either smashed or siphoned.

Arcee struggled to stand, fighting against the muck and fallen silk. She stumbled over to Steve. The Vehicon knelt in the center of the canyon, shaking and crackling with remaining electricity.

“You alright?” Arcee asked.

“Yeah. F-fine…” Steve’s vocalizer was full of static and his optical panel was flickering. “Just need to…lay down for…a…”

The Vehicon slumped forward but Arcee grabbed him before he could hit the ground. Bulkhead popped out of the cavern and upon seeing the coast was clear, walked over and helped lift the Vehicon.

“Looks like you bunch’ve been through a lot,” Bulkhead said.

“You have _no_ idea,” Arcee grumbled, wiping off any slime that got smeared on her frame. 

The other half of the ship had been battered far more than the cockpit, striking the sharper rocks and splintering further apart. What remained were hunks of metal scattered around the canyon and supply boxes specifically designed for harsh crashes. Arcee, Billy, and Nickel grabbed what they could and lugged it to the borehole.

It was a walk down a narrow set of stairs, winding down into a cavern. There had been some hint of civilization here, with pillars and carved out areas in the rock. There were holes for ventilation and pipes for solvent, although the latter had dried up long ago. Arcee could see faded metal signs giving directions to trading posts and transportation chutes, though the cave had collapsed on those pathways. It occurred to Arcee that the only reason the cavern hadn’t been scraped clean like the old town was because the borehole entrance was too small for the Terrorcons. Not that it had kept the creatures from meddling. The strange slime still occasionally oozed from the ceiling, leaking through cracks. No silk or electricity, but the stale earthy odor of slime pervaded the area.

Wheeljack had been laid down in the far back of the cavern, underneath a poster boasting for bots _See the glorious heights of Gygax today!_ and the number for a long since destroyed travel agency. Wheeljack rested on an emergency berth and every breath was accompanied by a loud rattle. Buttons sat next to him, missing an arm but untroubled by the damage. Bulkhead placed Steve next to Wheeljack on another emergency berth while Billy patrolled the cave entrance. The battle must have hyped up the Vehicon even more than usual because he seemed unable to sit still.

Nickel didn’t idle either. She looked over Wheeljack, pressing her audial to his chest and using a medical scanner to observe what her optic couldn’t.

“You got debris in your spark chamber.” Nickel reported, “You need surgery but I don’t have the tools equipped for something so…invasive.” Her servos clenched and unclenched. “All I can do is make you comfortable until we find a medbay.” She added the latter in a whisper.

“Great.” Wheeljack wheezed. He looked up at Arcee. “Seems like you were right about this place being a deathtrap.”

“Well, look at that,” Arcee said coolly, “Wheeljack admits he was wrong and all it took was life-threatening peril.”

Wheeljack rolled his optics. “Alright, I deserve that.” he coughed.

“They were waiting for us.” Bulkhead sat on a raised portion of rock, perhaps a sloping barrier leading into a shop or apartment. “Those things rammed us where they knew the moon’s gravity would take us down. Only thing is they expected us to die or be too hurt to fight ‘em off.” 

Arcee’s processor served up the image of a creature from Earth: the trapdoor spider. The arachnid lurked underground until something wandered too close and snatched it.

“Can we send a distress beacon?” Buttons coughed as Nickel began reattaching his arm.

“Not with the communications array in its current state.” Arcee displayed the crude map of Luna-2 on her HUD. “Moonbase Two can’t be too far from here. The only issue is the possible army of Terrorcons between here and there.”

“If they haven’t dismantled it,” Billy muttered.

“Doubt it.” Bulkhead said, “Drone security was always tight and those things crave energon. Can’t get that from a buncha sparkless bots.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “It’d be a bit old but Moonbase Two had a medbay.”

“Would that have the tools we need?” Arcee asked, looking at Nickel.

“Anything is better than a basic medkit, which is what we have.” Nickel said.

“Them things…don’t like electricity.” Wheeljack’s dentae were clenched in pain but the agony hadn’t clouded his processor. “Gotta be something in the ship that can zap ‘em. Make ‘em…” He coughed, stroking his chest. “…back down enough for us to make way. Make something outta ship bits…”

“You’re in no condition to do anything, Jackie.” Bulkhead said.

“I can still _think_ , so I can _build_.” Wheeljack wheezed and it was a minute of coughing before he spoke again, “I…I’m still functioning.”

“I can help!” Billy stood like a brilliant idea had brought him into sudden action. “I can scout around with my super-secret stealth mode!”

“Billy, it’s not much of a secret if you tell everyone.” Nickel said.

Billy slumped. If he had a face, he’d be pouting. “Then what’s the point of having it if I can’t _brag_ about it?”

“Don’t take any risks. Just try to find us the least treacherous route out of here.” Arcee said, “Then we’ll plan, refuel, and recharge.”

Billy saluted and then headed for the cave tunnel.

* * *

There wasn’t much else to do but wait. Billy perfectly copied an Earth bird, popping in and out of the underground town with junk for Wheeljack to compile and reports of Terrorcon movement. There were small clusters of Terrorcons ambling around but not the large swarms that they had dealt with earlier. The creatures seemed to stay close to areas congested with silk and violet electricity, like cars on a highway. With each report, Arcee erased Smokescreen’s obnoxious watermark and replaced it with revised topography and viable routes. Steve still did not awaken, but Nickel said it was only exhaustion and what he needed was stable recharge.

As the night cycle wore on, Billy ran out of steam and curled next to Steve for recharge. Buttons curled up next to Billy. It was the first time Arcee had seen the Vehicon pile in so close and was reminded of all the pictures of infant Earth animals Miko had uploaded to the Autobot server until her admin rights were revoked. Nickel gave Wheeljack some sedatives so he would slip into recharge. Bulkhead wanted to take first watch but Arcee insisted he rest, having spent most of the day fighting.

Arcee took the first watch. She sat at the mouth of the cavern, watching for movement in the darkness.

Another mission gone sideways, but it wasn’t just her life on the line. Pearl’s frame was unaccounted for and Bulkhead had seen the Terrorcons rip Eleanor’s chassis apart and carry it away. For the first time, she was going to have to fill out the ‘casualties’ category on the mission paperwork. Would she have to list the Vehicons by new designations or old serials?

The femme still watched the darkness. There was no wind on Luna-2, not even clouds or a proper atmosphere. Not that Cybertronians needed to breathe but it offered some comfort. Luna-2 was barely mechaformed, reserving all its resources for the communication hub. The moon’s natural hostility was only exaggerated by the new, alien presence: the silk, the slime, the far-off crackles of violet electricity.

The silence stretched. Arcee continued the watch for movement, for Cybertronian unlife to come lurking in search of sustenance. It did not come though. Wheels moved behind Arcee, but she didn’t turn around as Nickel sat across from her. The minicon rested against the cavern wall, still maintaining her distance.

“Aquatron.” Nickel said.

Arcee looked at her. Even sitting, Arcee was still taller than the minicon. “What?”

“Aquatron. Ocuroid Colony.” Nickel said, “That’s where I’m from.”

Arcee searched her database but couldn’t find any mention of the planet or colony. “I’m not familiar with it.” 

“You wouldn’t be,” Nickel muttered, “because it’s beyond the blockade.”

Arcee’s optics widened. “That’s impossible. No ship can get past the Bubble. There’s a--”

“FTL forcefield. I know.” Nickel said, “Turns out that if you steal a BBC ship and tear it apart, it has a module that lets you pass through the field. Or that’s how Fulcrum explained it...” She looked down, frowning at her servos. “Do you know who the Quintessons are?”

“Quintessons…” That popped up in Arcee’s database but the information was sparse with hearsay and a lack of citations. Arcee decided to go with what she knew. “They’re a story; monsters made up to scare protoforms. ‘Go to recharge or a Quintesson will snatch you’.”

Nickel chuckled and mumbled something that sounded like “information creep”. Before Arcee could ask what meant the minicon said Nickel continued.

“They’re not made up. Pit, they’re not even _extinct_ like your High Council wanted you to believe.” Nickel said, “They’re just one of the thousands of jerkaft organic species beyond the blockade. They’re part of the Galactic Council and they… _created_ Cybertronians.”

“No.” Arcee shook her helm, “There’s a lot of things I’m willing to believe but there’s no way--”

“I don’t know for certain but that’s…” Nickel’s optics shuttered, “That’s what they _told_ us. Not a cycle went by that the Quintessons wouldn’t remind every bot on Aquatron that we were _their_ creations. We should be _grateful_ to serve them. That the caste system they imposed on us was divine and natural. That everything was _perfect_ as long as the gods watched us.”

Everything about the minicon’s frame went rigid, from clenched dentae to fists.

“Hard to believe that when you’re patching up bots who make the mistake of crossing path of a Quintesson concubine and not bowing and scraping enough before them.” Nickel growled.

“And the ‘Cons wiped them out?” Arcee said because that was usually how these kinds of stories went.

“No.” Nickel said, “the Black Block Consortia did.”

“Why would the Consortia attack a Quintesson colony? They’re supposed to be on the same side.”

“They were allies for as long as the Quintesson colonies paid their ‘taxes’ to the Consortia and the Galactic Council.” Nickel said, “Every megacycle we had to load up a Consortia ship with anything we scraped together: minerals, good, bots…Aquatron wasn’t a great planet and our colony was bottom rung. I guess the Quintessons got tired of paying out for a useless colony and they took off. Like…like _we_ were a failing business they couldn’t bother the upkeep on. Our leaders said it would be okay. The mayors, the priests….they said we could find a way to pay off the Consortia without the Quintessons. But we couldn’t…we _knew_ we couldn’t. We just didn’t have enough people and then the Consortia came, demanding to know what was going on. Then they found out they weren’t getting paid and they…”

Nickel shuddered, her entire frame wracked with fear and pain.

“So, the Consortia _took_ what they wanted.” Nickel whispered, “We were mechanical, and our frames had the resources they wanted if they just…” She swallowed, “They had a… _weaponized magnet._ Made it specifically to paralyze machine life. Your spark and frame would be intact but you couldn’t move as they…smelted you down. Broke you to get the base elements: copper, iron, lead…nickel.”

The minicon stared at her small servos as if they had detached from her frame and were in danger of floating off.

“I wish they had sold us to slavers. Slavers would use our skills. Not our…parts. Like we were…” Nickel’s vocalizer stopped, turned to static. She breathed slowly, started again. “But it didn’t matter to them. It didn’t matter that we were _alive!_ ”

Nickel stopped again. Her voice echoed in the canyon and the darkness whispered back softly. _Alive…live…live…_

When Nickel spoke again, her words sputtered and spaced as her vocalizer fought with her processor.

“I was small, so they waited to…process me.” Nickel whispered, “They did it by weight, so the biggest were…processed…first. More money upfront and…so…by the end, it was just us minibots. And then…it was just me.”

Silence again. The echoing had stopped and Arcee had expected Terrorcons to swamp them, but no—they were not interested in misery, just energon. Silk fell from the rocks above, turned brittle without violet electricity running through it.

“Then those… _idiots_ showed up.” Nickel sighed, “I guess they’d been trying to repair their junkheap of a ship and bought a sketchy module. It warped them past the Bubble, and they smashed into our ship just as I was about to be processed. The Consortia thought the Scavengers were staging a rescue mission. The Scavengers just wanted to know where they were and what was going on.

“And Misfire…he can’t aim for scrap. He bumbled around the ship and shot the machine that controlled the air filtration system. By the time they found me, the bastards had suffocated. He…he was my hero. And he was a fucking _moron_. I told him that I would be loyal to him forever. And that idiot just smiled and said ‘Cool. Wanna be a Decepticon?’ And I said ‘Absolutely’ and he was happy just to have a new friend.”

That certainly sounded like something Misfire.

“You…didn’t even ask what they believed in?” Arcee asked.

“What did _that_ matter? What did I have left?” Nickel scoffed, “A dead planet? The packaged remains of my family and friends? The fact Decepticons hated the caste system and organics were just a bonus. There was nothing else for me.”

“You felt…empty,” Arcee said.

“Yeah.” Nickel looked at the other femme. Coolant shined in her optics as it dripped down her faceplate. “‘Empty’ is a good word for it.”

Arcee could understand that in ways she would fail to put into words. Emptiness had been her existence long before the Autobots. Forgotten isolation had been her designation and then being the lone survivor of a crumbling military outpost.

“Well…” Arcee’s vocalizer threatened to hitch as well. Her processor was struggling, wrestling with new knowledge. “Compared to most Decepticons, the Scavengers are the least terrible. And…you’re not as awful as you _could_ be.”

“Thanks.” Nickel said. She then inhaled as she wiped away the tears, “Don’t take this as a declaration or anything. I’m still going to be a ‘Con.”

“I can’t see you as an Autobot.” Arcee admitted, “I think the red shield would clash with your paint.”

“Guess that’s true.” Nickel admitted, “Purple goes with everything.”

Nickel then smiled at the larger femme. It wasn’t a mocking smirk or a gleeful grin, but subtle and appreciative. It was the first time Arcee had seen it on Nickel’s faceplate and it was…well, pretty. For a ‘Con.


	27. Arcee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! This year, you get BODY HORROR. 
> 
> 2020 has been a trip, y'all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: body horror, seriously injuries, paranoia, emetophobia, robot gore, alien gore... you know what? Let's just call this the Cronenburg/John Carpenter chapter and leave it at that.

> **Aside from weapons and ammunition, here’s what Arcee stores in her subspace: laser-rifle cleaner and oil, 1 canteen-cube, 10 electronic lockpicks, 1 tent, tent pins, emergency berth with blanket, coolant bottle, first designation papers as “Arcee”, a picture of Jack, and a vial of Tailgate’s innermost energon.**

Luna-2 lacked a proper atmosphere, so it had no true ‘day’ or ‘night’ cycle. More rustic-minded machines designated ‘day’ from ‘night’ by observing the rotation of Cybertron from the lunar surface. Arcee was not one of those machines. She relied solely on her internal chronometer and temperature gauge, monitoring any changes. For hours, the moon was stagnant, ice-cold, and silent as Terrorcons prowled elsewhere. Maybe even unloving abominations needed stasis now and again. Only with uninterrupted stillness did Arcee enter recharge and wake at what could be called pre-dawn.

She made a perimeter check out of habit but found no change. Bulkhead had taken watch at the cave mouth. The Vehicons were resting, making sleepy movements in the dark. The only light came from a rocky crevice that had once been a waiting area. Wheeljack had dragged away from the emergency berth and turned an old bench into a work desk. He used only his headlights to work, ignoring the coolant running down his faceplate. His optics didn’t look away from the scraps Billy had brought as Arcee approached. 

“Wheeljack, you need to take a break or you’re going to burn out.” Arcee sighed.

“Almost done,” Wheeljack murmured. He slotted another piece into place and began welding. “Got us into this mess. Least I can do is see us out.”

Wheeljack’s latest invention was four modified guns with smaller, pump-action magazines wrapped in plastic and duct tape. Arcee’s first attempt to pick up a modified gun rewarded her with a small electric shock.

“Careful.” Wheeljack said, “Some of ‘em may not be sealed too great.”

The electric shock was the least of Arcee’s concern. The gun felt cheap as if cobbled from leftover metal and plastic which—in all fairness—it was.

“I feel like I’ll break this if I hold it too tight,” Arcee muttered.

“You might, but that’s what you get working with leftovers.” Wheeljack said, “Eight shots each but it’ll scatter a group of Terrorcons as long as they’re standing close to each other.”

“No reloads?” Arcee asked.

Wheeljack shook his helm. “Guns are fragile and the ammo’s volatile. Tampering could lead to an explosion. Still, best work I’ve done on such short notice. I call ‘em the XX-Blasters.” The mech turned off his headlights and coughed, wincing as he touched his chassis. “Arcee…if worse comes to worst, promise me…you’ll leave me behind .”

Arcee shook her helm. “Not an option.”

Another coughing fit and the mech doubled over as Wheeljack’s entire frame trembled. “I’m a Wrecker, Arcee. Slag goes down, we cut and run. Whirl, Wheelie…” More coughing, and this time there was a spray of bright blue in his palms. He shook his helm. “Lookit me, feeling sorry for myself. If Kup were here, he’d put me over his knee...”

“Wheeljack…are you…”

Arcee wasn’t sure if now was the time to ask if her comrade was ‘okay’. They were surrounded by enemies with no feasible way to return home. It would be reasonable to be far from ‘okay’. And what did Arcee know about processor health or postwar stress, anyway? Ratchet looked after everyone but he was only one mech.

“When was the last time you spoke to Ratchet?” Arcee asked.

“Doc’s got enough in his cube…” Wheeljack mumbled but his optics weren’t in any fixed direction. It was a look Arcee had seen too often and was learning to hate it.

“I think, when we get back to the _Nemesis_ , you should talk to him,” Arcee said.

“About what?” Wheeljack scoffed, “I do my patrols and paperwork. There’s more important things going on.”

“Just because a lot is going on doesn’t make you less important, Wheeljack.”

Wheeljack waved her away as if his processor health were a tiny rust patch on the _Jackhammer’s_ hull. The mech crawled back to the emergency berth and, with slow pained movement, rolled onto his side. With his level of pain, there was no way he’d slip into recharge so easily, but it was the best way to end an awkward conversation. Arcee didn’t blame him. She sat against the cave wall and planned a route across Luna-2.

* * *

They only needed 2 more hours to recharge basic function and ammo, and then it was back on their pedes. Out of the cavern and into the unknown. They moved in two groups—the first led by Billy scouting ahead with Arcee and Buttons following. The second group was Bulkhead, followed by Nickel, Wheeljack, and Steve guarding the rear. With superglue and crushed rock, Wheeljack upgraded Nickel’s smooth wheels to tough treads. It wouldn’t last for more than a day but it made navigating the silk and slime far easier. Wheeljack could hardly walk—could barely breathe—so he was strapped to Bulkhead’s back. Nickel had balked at that decision.

“Why don’t you let me carry him? My alt is a medical buggy.” Nickel said.

“Nickel, you can barely travel through this gunk,” Arcee said, “and we don’t know what we might encounter. Unless your alt has weapons, you’ll be a sitting duck.”

“I don’t know what a duck is but I’m offended!” Nickel huffed.

“Slow your roll, ankle-biter.” Wheeljack wheezed, “Done this dance before...can still aim...”

“Jackie and I once got into a tangle with some Insecticons that took out his legs.” Bulkhead said, “That was one crazy Tuesday.”

Nickel’s response was a glower. Neither Nickel nor Arcee was fooled by the duo’s Wrecker bravado. Limb damage was common to Cybertronians and swapping those parts was akin to humans changing shoes. Internal damage was radically different. In Wheeljack’s condition, it’d be a miracle if he could fire his gun, let alone aim it.

They walked the dead moon with the fear of petrol-rabbits traveling a vast selenite savannah. They tiptoed through the gullies of skeletal buildings and carefully slid over rocky outcroppings, but still, they met no Terrorcons. Arcee cut through silk, watching violet electricity pop and fizzle to nothing. As they approached the communication center, the silk became denser and more decorative.

Starships lay hidden in silken mounds, chewed and torn apart by Terrorcon teeth and claws. The most intact starship was no bigger than an Earth bus. They made a detour for the fallen starship because going around it would be cumbersome. It was of foreign design, whale-shaped and boasting a broad stern and blunted sails. Nothing like triangular or spear-like Cybertronian starships.

The alien ship’s inside offered little clues. The walls weren’t marred by laserfire but a branching electrical discharge, like an Earth tree in winter. There were smears of purple energon though most had been licked clean. The ship’s computers and most of the metal had been gutted and what surface hadn’t been taken apart was covered in the same silk and brown slime that enveloped the lunar surface. Alien corpses laid facedown in slime, torn apart, or partially chewed. The corpses were also pristine, yet to decay in the moon’s thin atmosphere and lack of vermin. Most of them had green skin and tendrils, while others were far more amphibian or avian.

“Aliens?” Bulkhead murmured, “What’re aliens doing on Luna-2?”

 _Working for the Consortia,_ Arcee thought but said nothing.

Further exploration of the crashed starship revealed only more alien corpses. These victims had died in the crash—splattered, crushed, or pierced by falling debris. Still, the Terrorcons had not let them alone, ripping and tearing in a desperate search for energon. The only aberration was the alien sitting in the cockpit. A piece of sharp metal had caved in their chest cavity—meaning they had likely died first in the crash--but that wasn’t the only aberration. Unlike the other aliens, this one’s body had undergone a bizarre deformation. The skull looked like it was trying to split in two and its limbs were tearing apart, with standard organic limbs turning into a hard and crab-like carapace. Spikes pierced through the green skin and a jagged maw had opened on the abdomen as if it had begun chewing on metal that had pierced its body. Brown slime oozed from every orifice and the flesh bloated with advancing decay.

“What in the hell happened here?” Arcee murmured, getting an optic-full of the creature.

“If I had a clue, I’d tell you,” Bulkhead said.

Buttons had another concern. “Why would the Terrorcons take apart the ship but leave the bodies?”

“They’re organics. There’s no energon to harvest.” Steve said.

“They still bit them though…” Billy murmured.

Nickel was observing the mutating corpse, tracing fingers along with the bite marks in its body. Out of all the alien corpses, this one had been the most ravaged—as if the Terrorcons had developed a taste for it compared to the other alien corpses. The Minicon then took a scoop of the brown slime from the corpse and her optics magnified, studying the sample.

“It’s the same as the stuff outside.” Nickel said.

“So _all_ this gunk came from one body?” Bulkhead said.

“Seems like a lot,” Steve said, “and how’d it get outside?”

Nickel plopped the muck on the floor and wiped her servo with a cloth from her subspace. “I have a theory.”

Once her servos were clean, the Minicon removed a glass vial from her subspace. Threads of steel silk were stored inside but lacked the violet electricity that the other silk had carried. The silver sheen was disappearing as it decayed into brown slime.

“When we first crashed, I took a sample of the silk.” Nickel said, “It was holding electric current so I thought it was inorganic, but it started degrading into this gunk.” She held up the vial to the mutating alien. “The same gunk coming from _this_ thing. What’s weirder is that it _looks_ metal but it's organic and densely toxic.”

“Who’s it toxic to?” Bulkhead asked.

“We won’t know without lab testing.” Nickel looked at her wheels, thickly coated in silk and slime. “When we get back to the _Nemesis_ , we’ll need to decontaminate _and_ quarantine.”

That certainly wouldn’t make returning home any easier. Arcee put the thought aside and kept her optics on the vial.

“This isn’t right.” Arcee said, “Airachnid’s silk wouldn’t break down like this. Luna-2 doesn’t have a proper atmosphere. There’s nothing to cause such advanced decay. Pit, it's nearly sterile.”

“Maybe the dark energon was holding it together?” Bulkhead asked.

“But why’s it turning to sludge like this guy?” Steve asked and pointed to the mutated corpse. 

The more Arcee thought about it, the less comfortable she became. She looked at Wheeljack but the mech had slipped into a wheezing sleep. He wasn’t officially a scientist but he would be able to come up with a better thought out hypothesis.

“We’re missing something.” Arcee said, “What would cause such a dramatic change in Airachnid’s silk and be strong enough to affect Luna-2?”

Billy tilted his helm and inched closer to the mutating corpse. Like Buttons, he had kept his distance from the strange alien but now he was closely observing it.

“Maybe they ate something bad?” Billy suggested with a shrug.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Steve sighed. He gestured to the shattered hull from which they could make their exit. “We better get a move on. This won’t be the only crypt we find today.”

Arcee had to agree. She smothered her mounting fears and urged her band forward.

* * *

For an offhand comment, Steve’s guess was incredibly accurate. As the distance between their group and the communication center shrunk, more crashed starships appeared. These starships were Cybertronian and had been stripped of parts and passengers. The old ships lacked shields which led Arcee to two conclusions: either scavengers or slavers had used Luna-2 as a base until Airachnid’s arrival. There was no slime tracked inside the Cybertronian ships but the silk here was the thickest—crackling and popping with violet energy.

 _These ships must have been the first to be harvested,_ Arcee realized, _which means the slime is a recent development. But how recent are we talking?_

Due to the time dilation of the spacebridges and Cybertron’s distance from Earth’s Solar System, Airachnid could have inhabited Luna-2 for months or years. The fallen starships offered no information as even their computer consuls had been torn out. And even as they walked, there were still no Terrorcons to be found. Rather, they found something far worse.

They were within two miles of the communication center when they saw it. At first, Arcee thought it was a crafted cliff, a crudely made barrier to keep something out or in. As they moved closer, the femme made out distinct edges and blocky forms belonging not to rock but frames. Cybertronian frames. They were depigmented and torn, fused to make a grotesque wall. Arcee’s digestive tank cramped but she forced herself to not look away. She was head of Covert Operations now. The Autobots needed the information her optics and processor were recording. She had to look. It was her duty. She saw it wasn’t just dead Cybertronians but starships parts as well—sides of hulls, engine parts, cracked portholes, and open storage containers. Everything reused. Nothing discarded.

She stared at it, then vomited. She had only used a third of her rations, letting the others take more. She wiped her mouth and ignored the acid pain in her intake. She walked up the overhanging cliff, thinking of it as nothing but uneven ground. It was high enough to see the extension of the valley far below. The mutilated cliff did not surround the valley wall, only their section.

In the valley was the communication center. The satellite field was untouched, from the dishes to the fencing. The adjacent building was another story. It was draped in silk; so much silk that it was nigh impossible to see the building underneath. Resting on its roof was a bulb—a twisting mass of black glass and a tip crackling with violet electricity. A swarm of Terrorcons flew above, encircling the bulb-like moths before a lamp. They filled the air with a low, droning hum that seemed to bounce around the valley’s rock walls. The valley ground was pitted with pools of bubbling brown slime, which would occasionally spew violet gas. The gas drifted upward, thickening the valley air. It was as if the valley was a cross-section from another planet.

“It’s a trap,” Bulkhead said.

“Yeah, but why bother?” Steve asked. Compared to the rest of them, the Vehicons were the least troubled by the structure they were standing on. “All those Terrorcons need to do is sniff us out and tear us apart.”

“They can’t do that as long as we have these!” Buttons insisted and held up one of the volt guns.

“Yeah, but we only have so much ammo,” Billy murmured.

Arcee said nothing. Everything here was just a part of Airachnid’s web to lure them in. The barrier of dead Cybertronians. The lack of Terrorcons. Hiding from them so they couldn’t even decipher what condition she was in. It was a dare from a maniac, a creature without mercy and full of bloodlust taunting them from the dark.

 _Come and get me,_ Airachnid giggled, _I’m waiting for you, Arcee. I’m_ always _waiting…_

Arcee fought off the shiver running up her backstrut. “She wants something from us.” she said, “That’s why she’s letting us get this close.”

“We should split up.” Steve said, “Half goes in, half finds another route.”

“If it’s a trap the last thing we should do is split our numbers,” Bulkhead said.

“Whatever choice we make, we need to make it fast.” Nickel said.

The Minicon had unstrapped Wheeljack from Bulkhead’s back so she could look at the mech. She tried to wake him but the mech’s optics remained off. He coughed up more energon and Nickel wiped his mouth.

Nickel looked at Bulkhead and Arcee. “I don’t know how much longer your friend is going to last.”

Arcee didn’t think of Wheeljack. She couldn’t. If she thought about Wheeljack—one of her oldest surviving friends struggling to breathe and unable to move—she would plunge into the spider’s nest without a plan. Arcee cleared her processor and thought back to Airachnid. Long before she had met the Insecticon faceplate to faceplate, she heard rumors of a monster on the battlefield. A compound-eyed creature that had no interest in the politics or ideals they fought over. It was a creature of hate. A beast birthed by endless conquest and War.

But the beast had never killed Arcee. It had been given multiple chances but always hesitated. The creature savored Arcee’s pain and what would be the fun in killing prey she found amusing? Then Airachnid would have to find another target that wouldn’t be half as fun.

Arcee understood what she had to do.

Bulkhead was standing over Wheeljack, staring at his amica’s coolant-streaked faceplate. Arcee approached him and touched his gigantic servo. Bulkhead looked at her with solemn blue eyes.

 **[how much do u trust me?]** Arcee asked through the comm.

 **[WITH MY LIFE]** Bulkhead answered.

 **[then do exactly as i say]** Arcee said.

* * *

“No! _No! Frag you!_ ” Bulkhead shouted.

“Keep your voice down!” Arcee hissed, “In case you haven’t noticed, we have a _swarm_ out there and _deadweight_ here!” She pointed at Wheeljack. “We don’t have a choice Bulkhead--”

“Autobots don’t leave each other behind!” Bulkhead growled.

“But _Wreckers_ do.” Arcee countered, “You _know_ what the protocols say--”

Bulkhead didn’t let her finish. He knocked her back with a swing from his giant fist. Arcee stumbled back and aimed for Bulkhead’s helm, but the mech had predicted her move. Bulkhead grabbed her arm, letting Arcee misfire her laser into the sky. With the other massive servo, Bulkhead grasped the femme by the helm. Arcee cursed and kicked but she could do little without the threat of her helm being entirely crushed. The green mech worked fast, emptying Arcee’s subspace. In the background, Arcee could hear the Vehicons and Nickel freaking out about what was going on.

Then Bulkhead approached the end of the grisly cliff and dropped Arcee. Arcee would have busted her helm had she not assumed the ‘crash’ position, but it was still a rough tumble. She skidded down the slope, feeling every rock on the way down. One audial accessory cracked while another broke off. A cosmetic injury but still painful. When Arcee stopped rolling, she was scuffed, battered, and dripping energon.

The fresh energon worked faster than Arcee except. The steady hum of the Terrorcons was interrupted and the creatures swept toward her. Without weapons and ammo, all Arcee could do was run. She ran in a zigzag pattern, avoiding the bubbling muck puddles. The air in the valley was thick and putrid, like sitting in a garage full of diesel fumes. It wouldn’t kill a Cybertronian but it wasn’t comfortable either.

The Terrorcons seemed untroubled. If anything, they seemed faster here—hungrier—than the lazy scouts they had dealt with when they first crashed. These Terrorcons also had spikes growing from their dermal plating, occasional drips of brown or violet slime oozing from between the joints. How long had _these_ dwelt in the valley?

Arcee skidded, narrowly avoiding falling into a muck puddle. The Terrorcons had her cornered, ready to feast…and then the humming ceased. The Terrorcons were frozen, raised limbs and unfurled mandibles locked into position. The air pulsed once, then twice before a new humming began. Slowly, the Terrorcons began moving in. Instead of siphoning her energon, they lifted her over their helms and began walking. Arcee could only think of ancient humans carrying a kill back to their village. The Terrorcons marched toward the communications building and its massive spire.

The soft hum continued—the soft droning of a vacuum cleaner.

As they passed an effervescent pit, Arcee looked in but could discern nothing. It was just bubbling brown slime, barely different from the gunk draped around the other parts of the moon. The vapors smelt of energon, but it was rotten if corroded by an evil spark. But what in the universe could be more corrupt than dark energon itself?

The humming only intensified as the building came closer. The vibrations rattled her dentae, made it feel like her plating was shifting. The purple and black spire was subtly vibrating, issuing out the hum. The black glass sides were rough and pitted as if it had suffered damage and was straining to remain together.

The spire opened, black glass unfolding like a flower. The air shook with the sound of a massive t-cog engaging. A helm and thick legs slid out of the folds. It was Airachnid, now a giant thrice the height and weight of Predaking. Now untransformed Airachnid stepped across the roof. The building creaked under her weight as her legs dragged her forward. She settled on the ledge, folding legs under her like a spider.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore optics?” Airachnid purred.

The Terrorcons released Arcee but the femme couldn’t move. She fell to the ground, unable to take her optics off Airachnid’s frame. The femme had, for lack of a better term, gone completely buggy. She looked even more like an Earth spider with additional optics, eight thick legs, and a bulging abdomen. Her helm points were longer and jagged, violet electricity running up it like a Jacob’s ladder. Entire sections of her metal plating were cracked and brown spikes poked through as if the protoform had turned thorny and was attempting an escape. 

“What the pit happened to you?” Arcee said.

“Oh, a bit of this. A bit of that.” Airachnid chuckled. She waved a spider leg at Arcee and brown slime dripped from the joints. “Can’t a girl do a cosmetic touch-up once in a while?”

“You may have gone a little overboard,” Arcee said, “what with the giant legs and the Terrorcon army and taking over the moon and such.”

Airachnid chuckled and another leg swept down. It wrapped around Arcee, lifting her into the air and closer to Airachnid’s body. Arcee was nearly knocked unconscious by the odor of inorganic corruption and an organic rot to rival Earth’s most pungent landfills.

“I’m certain you didn’t come here for a friendly chat.” Airachnid said, “What’s wrong, little Autobot? Have a spat with your friends? Your delicious, energon-filled _friendsss_ …” The lower half of her faceplate twitched. Her optics went glossy before refocusing on Arcee, “Tell me where they are and I _might_ leave one you can feast on.”

“Even if I wanted to be a Terrorcon, I wouldn’t eat those traitors,” Arcee growled. She squirmed in the grip of the giant femme but the leg only squeezed tighter. 

“Oh _please_. You think I’d fall for such a pathetic display of ‘betrayal’?” Airachnid chuckled, “You Autobots stick together like energon. Sweet delicious energon, running from the _bodiesss_ …”

The Insecticon’s faceplate unfolded. A purple and black proboscis slid out, webbed with yellow-brown organic matter. Brown slime dripped from the clawed tip and Arcee struggled harder, twisting away from the mutated limb. Then just as quickly as it slid out, the proboscis withdrew. Airachnid folded her mandibles back into place.

“Whoops! Forgot my _manners_!” the giant femme giggled, “Dining and dashing isn’t very queenly behavior.”

Arcee had seen better acting from extras in public broadcast soap operas. Aside from her legs, Airachnid had barely moved. Compared to her new mass, her arms seemed small and atrophied like a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Up close Arcee could see the warps and dents of form fatigue and patchy rust and violet infections. Arcee looked below and saw the Terrorcons had frozen in place. Without Airachnid’s mind, they had no will aside from insatiable hunger. The concoction of dark-synth energon assured you power, but not health or sanity.

A change of plans was in order.

“You’re sick, Airachnid.” Arcee said, “You can use the communication hub to get ships to land here sometimes but it must have been a slag shoot to get Cybertronians. The hunger was too much so you went after anything. Frames, bodies, blood…but something went wrong. You got into something… _else_.”

“And what would _you_ know, Autobot?” Airachnid snarled. Her optics flickered between Insecticon pink, Terrorcon violet, and something that was a putrid alien red.

As the light show went on, Airachnid’s dermal plating began buckling and cracking. Whatever Airachnid’s metal concealed now longed to escape. Airachnid’s mandibles unfurled again, webbed proboscis tasting the air. The Terrorcons began a loud hum and their optics were lit red and purple. The hivemind had long since embraced their queen’s corruption.

“Hunger? You’ll never understand the hunger. The hunger and the voices…voices calling from the darknessssss...” Airachnid’s voice was garbled with static. _“The song of the dark nebula…The whispers of the black star, beautiful and lifeless in the void…I must harken to it, see the birth of a new order…!”_

Airachnid screamed. Her frame convulsed but the Terrorcon humming only grew louder. She twisted and bucked as the creature within tried to escape. Her legs thrashed but unfortunately held tight to Arcee. Arcee went from squirming to get away to holding on for dear life. She didn’t want to be any closer to Airachnid but she _also_ didn’t want to be flung into a slime pit.

Then the Insecticon giant gasped and shuttered her optics. When they opened again they were pink. Airachnid attempted to refold her mandibles but it was slow—as if the mechanism was jammed. A spurt of hot, brown slime volleyed from the proboscis, splashing onto the ground.

“Damn it! Damn it all!” Airachnid yelled and coughed out more brown slime. The proboscis finally slid in and, mechanisms clicking into place. She looked at the gathered Terrorcons and hissed, “Stop that annoying humming!”

The humming immediately stopped. With the drones under control once more, Airachnid turned her attention back to Arcee. She drew the Autobot even closer so they were faceplate to faceplate. There were small spider web cracks on the monstrous femme’s faceplate and coolant running down the polished metal—tainted violet by the dark energon.

 _“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t drain you right now!”_ Airachnid screamed.

No more games then. No more pretending at civility. The illusion was shattered and it was only a matter of time before Airachnid’s control entirely evaporated. As Megatron had dealt with the coming of Unicron, Airachnid now dealt with the coming of something… _else_. This meant that Airachnid was just as desperate for relief as Megatron had been.

“Because I’m your ticket off this rock,” Arcee said. “The War is over and the Well is lit, but Optimus is dead. _Again_.” She rolled her optics. “With our slagged communications system the only people on Cybertron are deserters and slavers. Everyone wants to forgive and forget; I say frag that. Those aftholes have been squatting on Cybertron’s husk for too long. I’m the only one who thinks that though. My ‘teammates’ were just waiting for an excuse to get rid of me.”

“Are you telling me the soft-sparked Autobots are having _difficulty_ making tough calls in the real world?” Airachnid chuckled, “Who could have guessed?”

Gloating seemed to return Airachnid to her normal, monstrous self. For once Arcee was glad about Optimus’s habit of repeated death. Now she just had to keep the act up. She had to think like someone who was angry and bitter and assumed they deserved to be the leader rather than earning it.

In other words, Arcee had to think like Starscream.

“ _I_ should be the leader. _I’m_ the only one who can make tough calls.” To add to the performance, Arcee wouldn’t meet Airachnid’s optics. It was the same melodramatic lying method Starscream always employed. “ _They’re_ the reason our ship crashed and we don’t even have enough people to send a rescue party. Those idiots back at base will just scrap the damn moon and build another communication center.” She sighed, finally looking at Airachnid in the compound optics. “The reason why you haven’t been seeing as many ships is that the satellite needs to be reset. Let me inside the communications hub and I can reconfigure it. I’ll tell base that I’m the only one left. Then I’ll hitch a ride back on the first ship that stops here. If they’re slavers, you can have them.”

“And what about your companions?”

Arcee shrugged. “When I woke up, they were gone. Either they took off without me or were carried away. It wouldn’t be the first time. Space is dangerous.” She hitched her orbital ridges. “Once we get a ride back to Cybertron, we can have Ratchet take a look at you. Try to purge you of…whatever this is.” She gestured to the brown gunk and dents.

“This is your most pathetic trick yet,” Airachnid growled. Her processor was strained but she wasn’t stupid. “There’s no way a soft-spark Autobot like you would…would agree to something like that! The minute you get a ship, you’ll leave me here.”

“You can distrust me all you want, but unless you like being a hundred-ton slime monster, I’m your best bet,” Arcee said. “And how can I betray you? I’m unarmed. Those aftholes emptied my subspace so I wouldn’t waste Wheeljack. I don’t even have a _knife_ on me.”

Airachnid’s many limbs sorted through Arcee’s subspace. It was always a strange sensation to have someone sift through your subspace akin to a human’s description of a thief rooting through pockets hidden inside their jacket. Then Airachnid’s grip loosened and Arcee dropped to the ground like a toy the mutated Insecticon had grown tired of. Arcee was just glad not to land in a slime pit.

“The nanosecond I see something suspicious, say goodbye to your communication hub and hello to my legion.” Airachnid said.

It was just like Airachnid to use scorched earth tactics and worry about the consequences later. When Arcee stood, the Terrorcons moved in. One of them had a gaping wound on their neck and chassis, staining the rose-shaped stickers blue and purple. Eleanor or what _had_ been Eleanor. Another familiar frame violated by dark energon. Arcee looked away so she wouldn’t scream.

“Just make sure your pets don’t drool on me,” Arcee said.

“As long as you keep up your end of the bargain, dear.” Airachnid chuckled.

* * *

The hub’s doors were encrusted with dried slime and silk so the Terrorcons chewed and tore through the layers, tossing the doors aside. Five Terrorcons followed Arcee, forming a crescent moon of escape. Inside was the welcome center, a circular room with an octagonal desk and seating for guests. An administrative drone was slouched over the desk, covered in lunar dust. Friendly signs on the walls directed guests to restrooms, posters detailing Luna-2’s history, and a map of the hub.

Far off in the valley, laser weapons fired off with echoing booms and cracks. The ceiling creaked and ceiling tiles bulged as Airachnid dragged her frame across the roof. No doubt she was heading for the satellite field while the Terrorcons dealt with the approaching danger.

Arcee worked quickly. Terrorcons hovered around her, blocking her vision no matter where she looked. She focused on the communication hub map. The layout was typical Golden Age, being a series of conjoined circles: visitor’s center, commissary, emergency medbay, computer center, archives, and a jellybean shaped sliver for staff habsuites. As Arcee expected the most valuable equipment (the computer center) was in the far back with the commissary sitting between it and the medbay.

The Terrorcons hummed. One exposed their mandibles, clicking loudly.

“I’m hurrying!” Arcee insisted.

Another explosion sounded off outside, this time twice as near. The further Arcee walked through the building, the closer battle seemed to be on the approach. She put it out of her processor, turning her attention to the emptiness of the communication hub. Maintenance drone frames had collapsed in the hall from emptied batteries. The only disparity was with the security drones. Not only had their chassis been pried open but they had the same damage Arcee had seen on one of the starships—that branching damage that tore through the dermal plating. The security drones must have been functioning when _someone_ entered the building. Arcee looked to the floor but lunar dust still covered the surface.

Another bomb sounded from outside. Terrorcons shrieked, now joined by Airachnid’s bellow. It was like an ancient, colossal boombox trying to play the heavy-bass call of a terrifying bird. The building creaked, rumbled, but Arcee couldn’t worry about that. The Terrorcons still had her surrounded, breathing down her neck. No turning back now.

She kept marching forward, feeling like a prisoner marching to the spark extraction chamber. She placed one pede in front of the other and was glad that the medbay door was still functioning and easily slid open. As the map had shown it was a small circular room with three tall cabinets for equipment, a computer consul, and four medical slabs. Like everything else in the building, it was coated in lunar dust.

Two Terrorcons clicked their mandibles. Arcee wasn’t sure if they had the intelligence to realize what was happening. One grabbed her shoulder but then it screeched. Arcee pulled away, receiving the tail end of an electric shock. The Terrorcons didn’t scream for long and finally collapsed onto the ground in a twitching pile.

“About time!” Arcee said.

“Sorry!” Billy said, “Things are getting crazy out there!”

The Vehicon stood behind the fallen Terrorcons, holding a XX-Blaster. Arcee and him shoved the Terrorcon frames out of the doorway and an ambulance buggy sped through the cleared path. Its back was open like a pickup truck and strapped to the gurney inside was Wheeljack. The mech was bathed in coolant and wheezing with each rattling breath. When the Terrorcons were on the other side of the medbay door, Billy and Arcee worked to lift Wheeljack from the gurney to the medical table.

Then the air was rent with a shriek that felt as if it shook the airless moon.

“And _that_ would be Airachnid realizing what we’ve done,” Arcee said. Down the hall, she could hear Terrorcons screaming in their direction. “And now we have guests.”

“We can take them.” Billy removed an additional volt-gun from his subspace and tossed it to Arcee.

“ _Careful_!” Arcee was lucky to not have dropped the XX-Blaster but mishandling it still delivered a mild electric shock. “We don’t have enough ammo to take on an army.”

“Then barricade us in!” Nickel was yanking out cabinet sections and tossing them on the floor. Surgical supplies rattled as the Minicon grabbed what she could. “Get out of here and seal the door behind you.”

“What if you need to escape?” Arcee asked.

“I’ll figure it out! You need to get to the computer!” Nickel insisted.

Arcee would have protested but the Minicon rushed over to her. With surprising agility, she leapt and wrapped her arms around Arcee’s neck. She pulled the femme into a kiss. The Minicon tasted like old energon and the stale lunar dust that permeated the low atmosphere. Arcee’s spark sputtered and for once she was drifting.

Then Billy shot a Terrorcon lingering in the hallway and returned Arcee to the immediate, very deadly presented.

“And don’t die.” Nickel whispered.

Arcee could only nod.

“Hey…” Wheeljack coughed and spat out a mouthful of vivid blue. Arcee moved close to him and saw that the mech’s dentae were stained blue. The former Wrecker moved as close as he could and whispered into her broken audial, “…r-remember to…‘Wreck and Rule’…” 

Arcee nodded. “Of course.”

Wheeljack attempted a thumbs up before slipping back into unconsciousness.

Once they were outside the medbay door, Arcee fired her plasma rifle at the seals. The metal easily yielded to the heat, welding together, and jamming the door. Terrorcons were still ambling down the hall, mandibles exposed and slavering for fresh energon.

Billy and her dragged the fallen Terrorcons out of the medbay. Arcee fired at the door seals, melting them together. Terrorcons were now entering the building, clamoring over each other with mandibles exposed—slavering for fresh energon.

“Wreck and Rule,” Arcee whispered to herself and then ran ahead. Billy followed behind her, shooting at the Terrorcons who came too close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes:
> 
> The ‘XX-Blaster’ Wheeljack makes is the Nerf Rival Takedown XX-800 Blaster -- Pump Action, Breech-Load, 8-Round Capacity, 90 FPS, 8 Nerf Rival Rounds, Team Red. Cause if it ain’t Nerf, it's nothing! Also, it's owned by Hasbro so crossover. 
> 
> Ambulance buggies are indeed a thing in real life and it's used often at golf courses.


	28. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: for robogore, dissociation, paranoia, implied torture, secondary character death, and yknow what? this is just the robowar chapter. things are chaotic and confusing right now so its okay if you have no idea whats going on anymore. just be happy this is all about steve, everyone's favorite boy. 
> 
> you're welcome.

> **_Hold up!_ A lot is going on right now, plans being enacted and wheels spinning within wheels. Before the chaos of battle, before we witness the deadly dangers that face our heroes in the Valley of Corruption, let’s turn back the clock. Most importantly, what was Steve the Vehicon going while Arcee and Wheeljack were having their little spark-to-spark in the alcove?**

_It was a city of jagged points, layers of spiraling towers pointing heavenward. Everything in this city faced up and the materials made dictated the importance of each building—crystal and gold for the nobility and leaning towers of stone and silicon for the poor. The homes of the wealthy were ablaze with lights, coloring entire buildings with rainbow hues to show off their affluence. With so much neon blazing about, it made it hard to tell whether it was night or day. And everywhere there were fliers and machines, traveling through the skies in a way that would make organic aliens (humans) panic. A city of nothing but flying machines and pleasant (dizzying) heights._

_And in this strange city, Steve flew through the alleys made by these towers. No. Not Steve. Even in this dream, Steve could feel the alien nature of this vehicle (alt-mode) he was locked into. It was heavier, weighed down with more weapons than any grunt (Vehicon) would ever be trusted with. He tried to move, to steer this foreign frame (body) but he was paralyzed._

_No, this was not Steve’s dream or memory. He was only a parasite along for the ride on the body of this unknown flier._

_The flier moved without stopping. He was slow and cautious; taking what Steve could only guess was a long and daily commute to someplace important. As he traveled the height of the towers remained uniform but the buildings became cheaper, less sturdy. Some even leaned against each other or were supported by columns or under construction. They were not in the ghettos of this machine city yet but they were upon the cusp of it. The flier approached a transitory building with a base of stone and a high-rise pinnacle of pink quartz. The flier landed on the airstrip-balcony and in Steve’s spark (heart/mind/soul) he knew that this place was_ home.

_And yet his optics (eyes) lingered on the doorway that led into the high-rise habsuite (apartment). The door had been busted open, lying limp on broken hinges and inside the habsuite was shattered glass. Steve felt the flier’s spark sputter as they rushed inside. The place that had been home—that had been joy and comfort—had been torn apart. The furniture was tossed aside and broken due to their cheapness. The floor and walls scorched with laser fire. Gouges and dents from a frame (body) being thrown around and made to submit._

_Within the chaos, they would have easily overlooked the body. It laid crumpled in the corner, moved out of the way for those who had entered. The frame had already leaked out its energon into the cheap rug but the pigment was still leaving them. Freshly deactivated (dead) then. With shaking servos (hands) the flier reached out and rolled over the dead frame. The faceplate (face) was battered but immediately recognizable._

“ _Dirge…what have you_ done _?” whispered the unknown mech._

Steve wrenched himself out of the dream. He breathed slowly, lying on his back in the darkness. Billy was pressed against him and Buttons on the other side as they struggled to share the emergency berth bedding. Steve still couldn’t get used to sleeping while lying down and found himself sporadically waking up. He studied the cracks in the cavern ceiling until he felt metal hands wrap around his own.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Billy ran his spindly fingers along his hand, shifting and pressing in patterns to convey words.

The language had no proper name. It had always been used to communicate among Vehicons; a way to speak heinous thoughts without alerting the itchy trigger fingers of high command. Being locked up in the Autobot brig had only allowed the Vehicons time to refine the signs against ‘Autobot spying’ as the more paranoid Vehicons put it.

“Yes, I did.” Steve signed back.

“I’m not worth frying your processor for!” Billy insisted, “You’re always the one protecting me, trying to save me from everything! Why?”

“Why?” Steve gave a half shrug. “You’re a fellow soldier.”

Billy huffed and then began rapidly tapping. “I’m not _stupid_ , Steve. Everyone hates me or thinks I’m weird but I don’t care. I know I _should_ care but I just _can’t_. I _know_ something’s not right with me but you…” Billy paused in his signing. “You were _always_ a good soldier. You took care of everyone. Even me. You made sure I wasn’t around Starscream enough to get shot and if I got lost you’d find me. And the vents….you…” Another sigh. “Why bother?”

Steve almost signed back the automated response of how he was just doing his job, but then stopped himself. Why _did_ he bother with Billy? The Vehicons were designed to be identical; the perfect soldiers who were meant to fill out the army. They had a basic purpose to praise high command and avoid being slagged. Anything outside those parameters would get them killed or sent to Shockwave’s labs to figure out the source of ‘disturbance’.

But Billy was different. He did the bare minimum and spent his time staring into space or barely paying attention. Shockwave pulled him apart more than once but each time Billy came back, he was still spacey. The butcher masquerading as a scientist might have experimented more on Billy had the Vehicon not been one of the fastest in the army. No one else liked working or being around Billy, but Steve found him tolerable—once he understood how the gray Vehicon’s weird brain functioned.

“I don’t know.” Steve admitted, “You’re different, but it’s not ‘bad’. I think I like the difference in you? And now I’m different too so it makes me feel….less alone? I don’t know how to say it good but….it feels like I’ve known you all my life.”

“You _have_ known me all your life!” Billy signed with a chuckle.

“I mean beyond the clone tanks. Before Shockwave’s labs. Maybe even before we were _activated_ …”

Steve looked at their hands entwined in the darkness—black on silver.

_Steve looked at their servos entwined in the darkness—purple on blue. Two frames lying against each other in the dark. Neon streaked by the window, lighting up the cramped bedroom in vivid blues and pinks. Advertisements blared, talking up the reward of 60:40 energon rations for those who reported traitors to the High Council. It touted an even higher reward of 80:20 for anyone who captured Megatronus, preferably alive._

“■■■■■ _, are you awake?” said the purple mech._

_Steve, still a parasite frozen in time, looked at the faceplate next to him. The designations (names) and faces (faceplates) were still scrambled but now Steve understood why. They weren’t unknown but blocked; censored by a mind that hated to think about their existence._

“ _Barely.” said the other._

_Steve could not tell if the other mech was entirely blue or only his hands (servos) were. He could not look around the small bedroom (habsuite), had no control as the mech he was attached to kept his gaze on the scrambled face sharing his berth (bed). Who was this mech—this blue flier—that haunted through Steve’s dreams? Was it a ghost, or something else? And where was Steve in all of this?_

“ _What’s on your processor,_ ■■■ _?” asked the blue flier._

_Steve tried to listen for clues but could not recognize the voice (vocalizer). It sounded older and weighty, far more mature than the voice of the purple mech. It was a voice that commanded authority but could be gentle as well, just like Ratchet or Optimus._

“ _I just…do you think it’ll be okay?” the other whispered, “_ ■■■ _is on Luna-1 and we’re here. If something happens to him…”_

_And yet Steve did not know who these mechs were. Only that he was frozen here in their decaying memories._

“ _It’ll be fine.” The ghost whispered, “_ ■■■’ _s a survivor like us. A spoiled little brat like him has Unicron’s luck.”_

“Steve?” Billy lightly nudged him.

“I’m…here.” Steve signed slowly and then looked at his hand. It was black and skinny. Nothing like the thick fingers and steady palm of the blue flier. His fingers had been modified for scratching and clawing, not for punching like the….other. Steve then tapped to Billy, “Billy, what do you see when you have the nightmares?”

There was no other way to refer to them aside from ‘nightmares’. Steve had only heard of unpleasant visions, paralysis and yet being fully aware that you’re dreaming and helpless. The Vehicons only signed about it, too afraid of Shockwave’s experiments or Starscream’s temper to seek help. Even now they weren’t sure what the Autobots would do once they learned what the Vehicons suffered from.

It was something every Vehicon feared to discuss, to name aloud. Even now Billy had gone silent. Steve questioned if he had slipped into recharge until he felt the other Vehicon’s hand twitch.

“Pain.” Billy signed, “Mechs were hurting me, demanding I tell them…something. I can’t remember what. I wanted to get away—knew that I could get away—but they cut my wings. There was energon everywhere and they cut my wings. They _crippled_ me.” The silver Vehicon trembled. “I was the fastest machine ever built and they did _that_ to me…”

“You still are the fastest machine ever built.”

“….so you finally admit it?” If Billy had a face, he’d be grinning smugly.

“Don’t get a big head about it.”

In Steve’s spark, there was a sudden lightness, a fluttering feeling that whispered for him to take a chance. To just go for it, because who knew what tomorrow would bring? He could hear Arcee and Wheeljack whispering to each other in the alcove far from where they laid. Perhaps their plans would succeed or they would all die tomorrow. Either way, Steve had nothing to lose and seized this opportunity.

Steve leaned forward and nuzzled Billy’s neck. Billy went still but then leaned into it. Their engines purred, happily vibrating next to each other. Having no mouths, no eyes, lacking pleasure centers being Unix systems, this was the only method for Vehicons to appreciate one another. Most of their sensitive wiring was in their neck and it was the only way to feel, even if it was dampened compared to true Cybertronians. It was awkward but it was better than nothing. Better than being alone.

“You two are disgusting.” Buttons tapped on Steve’s arm, which was wrapped around Billy’s shoulder.

Steve’s response was a one finger gesture.

* * *

The only thing Steve hated about Autobot group missions was the tedium. Everyone had to talk out plans and have their say. There was a lot of sitting around and talking and it felt like ages passed before anything was done. Decepticon high command rarely talked of stratagem to the troops and if there was an overarching plan, only the superiors knew. When it came for the group to leave the cavern, Steve didn’t hurry. He sipped at his energon ration as the others discussed the best way to configure their groups, who should handle what items, and Wheeljack’s instructions on how to use his latest invention, the XX-Blaster. Steve sat on the sidelines with the other Vehicons and didn’t expect to be addressed until Nickel mentioned his name.

“Steve, you need to be careful of those ‘booms’.” Nickel said, “Your processor is full of static and your current frame isn’t equipped to deal with so much power. If you do it too much, you could tear your frame apart or scramble your processor permanently.”

“But I’m our ace in the hole against the Terrorcons!” Steve insisted, “We have limited ammo and the XX-Blaster only has eight shots.”

“It's not worth the risk,” Arcee said, “We already have one injured. We don’t need more.”

“But—” Steve began.

“At ease Steve, Steve.” Bulkhead said, “Save the dire heroics for real emergencies.”

Steve grumbled but relented. It's not that he _wanted_ his processor scrambled but he had to protect them. Billy, Buttons, Nickel, the commanders….they were all he had in the world. If he couldn’t protect them, what good was he? When it came to facing down death or mutilation, Steve would prefer to die protecting those he loved.

_Thick servos curled into a fist. When it came to facing death or mutilation,_ ■■■■■■ _would prefer to die protecting those he loved. He would not surrender or cower before these fools._

Steve’s vision had gone cloudy again, full of JPEG artifacting and triangles of resolution adjusting. The initial crash had knocked a few things loose. Nickel had repaired his visor to the best of her ability but there were still scratches of dead pixels. In those scratches, Steve couldn’t tell if his hand was spindly and black, or if it was sturdy and blue.

Maybe his processor was already fried. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he would be hearing voices and chasing hallucinations. Steve gathered the concern and shoved it in a locked box along with the rest of his petty worries. Now wasn’t the time for fear. He had a job to do.

Still, a tendril of the fear stayed with him and the further they traveled the abandoned moon, the longer it stretched from the box. Each inch of silk and slime set his stomach in a squirming state of unease. The commanders seemed to be untroubled by the sight until they reached the small hill of fused bodies, where they began to promptly lose their shit.

Steve—and all of the Vehicons, to be honest—had seen far worse. It was strange watching high command react so emotionally to a sight that would have made Starscream roll his eyes and send out the order for a cleanup crew. After Arcee and Bulkhead had recovered, they began staring each other down—eyes flickering as they comm’d back and forth. Steve hadn’t paid it much attention, scouring the skies for any sign of the circling Terrorcons looking ready to attack.

“No! _No! Frag you!_ ” Bulkhead yelled.

Steve’s attention snapped away from the sky and to the commanding Autobots.

“Keep your voice down!” Arcee hissed, “In case you haven’t noticed, we have a _swarm_ out there and _deadweight here_!” She pointed at Wheeljack. “We don’t have a choice, Bulkhead--”

Steve had heard Autobots argue but not like this. _This_ was dangerously close to Starscream bitching at Knockout on one of his worst days. Button’s optics were flickering so he was already recording this interaction since the Vehicon had a hard-on for drama. Billy looked ready to charge ahead but Steve grabbed his shoulder. If lasers were gonna fly, he didn’t want anyone in the crossfire.

“Autobots don’t leave each other behind!” Bulkhead growled.

“But _Wreckers_ do.” Arcee countered, “You _know_ what the protocols say--”

The punch happened so fast that Steve had to reset his eyes to make sure it wasn’t a trick. It didn’t look right for a large mech like Bulkhead to knock a small thing like Arcee aside but then Steve remembered that this was _Arcee_. The most wanted Autobot and slayer of countless Vehicons. She was the fastest, deadliest Autobot there was but her movements now were sluggish. As if she couldn’t decide what to do next as Bulkhead seized her. The femme fired a mistimed laserbolt into the sky and Bulkhead worked quickly. He grasped Arcee by the throat, emptying her subspace as Arcee kicked and snarled.

Then Bulkhead dropped her off the cliff.

“ _No!”_ Steve shouted.

“Stay where you are!” Billy ordered. His guns were trained on Bulkhead but he was trembling so badly he’d be more likely to hit the distant valley walls than the large green mech. “H-hands where I can see them!”

Bulkhead slowly turned from the cliff. He kept his eyes locked with Billy’s as he bent down and gathered Arcee’s things from the bumpy ground of the melted clifftop.

“Easy there…” Bulkhead said. He slowly held up his hands, not making a move from the cliff’s edge. “This can go two ways: you shoot me and get stuck here with the Terrorcons or you listen to what I have to say.”

“And why should I _listen to_ you?” Billy demanded, “You just…you just got rid of your friend! You’re not supposed to….to _be_ like this! You’re Autobots! _You’re supposed to be better!_ ”

Billy’s words were jumbled but to Steve, they were clear as a crystalline lake. He knew why his heart felt like breaking at the sight of their new commanders fighting. They were _Autobots_ now. They didn’t have to be afraid of dying or a sudden regime change because the commanders were callous and bitter. The Autobots cared about everyone under their command and took care of each other. To think otherwise….well, what was the point of changing sides? Why turn their backs on the Decepticon cause—the cause they had been _created_ for—if the Autobots were no different?

“Hey, idiot.” Nickel rolled in front of Billy. The gravel chunks had fallen off and she was struggling to move along the melted dead frames.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you--” Steve began.

“You don’t think I _know_ that, cyclops?” Nickel scoffed. She pointed at Bulkhead. “There’s no way the jolly green giant here would just take out one of his own like that. This is obviously part of some stupid, self-sacrificing Aftbot plan.”

Bulkhead sighed but smiled. “That obvious, huh?”

Nickel folded her arms and tapped her wheel in irritation. “If that was a _real_ fight the Blue Bomber would’ve blown your helm clean off, so _out_ with it!” she huffed.

“Arcee’s going in alone,” Bulkhead said but didn’t relax. He kept his eye on Billy as he continued, “She’s got history with Airachnid. Said she can draw the creepy-crawly out and get a better hold on the situation while we find another way in. Two-pronged attack. Still think I’m the bad guy here, buddy?”

Billy was still trembling but lowered his gun.

“I never thought you were,” Billy said. His voice was nearly a whisper. “Decepticons never promised us anything. Never even saw us as people….but we didn’t know that. Then you came along and you…. _changed_ everything. Then you started fighting like _them_ and I…” His words trailed off.

Bulkhead walked over but Billy eased back. Now would be the time that Starscream would strike him across the face for wasting their time or Megatron chuck the questioning Vehicon off the nearest tallest structure he could quickly locate. Billy remained frozen, looking at the ground of recycled robot bodies as Bulkhead reached out. Even lightly touching the Vehicon’s shoulder made Billy flinch.

“I know, buddy.” Bulkhead said, “I…well, we don’t got time to get into it but I was in your position once. There’s nothing wrong with questioning the way things are.” He tapped the side of his head. “Even a big lug like me recognizes when the top brass were making the wrong call and sometimes the bravest thing you can do is call them out on it. Even if you have to do it alone.”

“I don’t like it.” Billy muttered, “I don’t _want_ to fight people I trust.”

“Nobody _likes_ it, bud, but sometimes it has to be done.” Bulkhead said, “Things change and people change. Autobots aren’t dictators who set rules in stone and worship them when it's convenient. Even a good leader can be…. _blind_ to that. So there’s nothing wrong in asking questions.”

Billy’s wings immediately perked up. If he had a face, it would be plastered with a big grin. It made Steve’s spark do a little flip and also want to roll his eyes at how blatant Billy was with his emotions. He was like a puppy in giant robot form.

“Here’s the plan,” Bulkhead continued, “We split up and head down--”

The valley vibrated. Even the pebbles and chipped off bits of melted robot rattled as something pulsed. All eyes turned to the mound of black spiraled glass sitting atop the communications building. The air shook and all across the rocky valley, a noise echoed ten times as loud as it would be: a t-cog engaging. The black glass bulb unfolded and Airachnid’s head and legs slid out. No, she was no longer Airachnid but something different. In Steve’s mind, Airachnid had been a small and dainty creature. Still deadly but she hid that menace under cloying words and a stealthy way to achieve power. Soundwave had been the only one who could take her head-on, but that was because the silent machine was unpredictable.

Even far away, Steve could tell something was inherently…. _wrong_ about Airachnid’s new body. His magnified vision would only let him see so far, but he could make out the warps and bumps along the metal and the fleshy spires pushing their way out.

“Holy slag!” Nickel said, “Is that thing a Cybertronian?”

“Not anymore,” Bulkhead said.

“Looks like Airachnid put on weight. About a hundred tons of it.” Buttons murmured.

“Buttons, don’t fat shame her!” Billy said.

“I’m not _fat_ -shaming, I’m _monster_ shaming!” Buttons pointed at the gigantic Airachnid, who was solely focused on speaking with Arcee. “ _Look_ at that thing!”

Buttons did have a point. Steve knew little about Cybertronians, even less about Insecticons, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out this wasn’t normal. The Terrorcons were clustered on the ground, surrounding Arcee and giving her their full attention. The valley began to fill with a soft hum that reminded Steve of bees droning on in a hive or the spinning fan of a CPU.

“We gotta move. No idea how long Arcee can keep her distracted.” Bulkhead said. He slowly lifted Wheeljack, who was still unconscious. The large mech looked down at Nickel. “That offer to carry Jackie still on the table?”

Nickel looked at the craggy valley wall. “Don’t think my wheels will take me down the wall. I’ll need a fly-in.”

“I’ll do it.” Billy said, “My cloaking should keep us both safe until we can find a way in.”

Bulkhead nodded and Nickel began her slow transformation. It must have been a while since the Minicon used her t-cog but she changed into an ambulance buggy easily enough. It wasn’t huge but it was large enough to carry Wheeljack and small enough for Billy to lift and fly with.

“Alright, this is the plan of attack,” Bulkhead said as he strapped Wheeljack to the buggy, “Billy, fly Nickel down and wait for the Terrorcons to find a way into the building. Arcee should be with them. Follow them in and when you get far enough inside, zap ‘em. Steve, you’re on air control. Make the Terrorcons think there’s an air assault and keep pulling them away from the communications hub. Zap when the crowd gets too big and save the booms for emergency evac only. Buttons, you’re with me on the satellite field. That should pull the other Terrorcons in another direction.”

Steve hated the plan. Yeah, they’d be pulling the Terrorcons apart to keep them from swarming and overwhelming them but it also thinned out their numbers. Bulkhead would be a giant target and so would Billy and Nickel once the cloaking was over. Still, what choice did they have? All Steve could do was salute, transform, and prepare for bombardment. High above in the sky, Bulkhead and Buttons tumbled down the valley wall and charged for the satellite field.

“Come get some, you zombie freaks!” Bulkhead shouted. With Buttons running alongside him, they shot at the grounded Terrorcons. Buttons’ shouts were far from perfect but they were far more powerful and accurate than when he had been a Decepticon.

Steve coasted on the air. He shot at the Terrorcons that approached him but mostly he did relay—sending out team-wide comms about the movement of Terrorcons. When he wasn’t looking for hazards, he was shooting at the groups closest to their monstrous ‘queen’. The Terrorcons seemed especially riled up when one of Steve’s bombs struck a slime pool. The bubbling pit flared up, spewing violet fire and adding more smoke to the valley. It was so noxious even Steve had to fly away from the smoke trail and hover over the satellite field instead.

The satellite field was nothing impressive. It was identical to the Earth ones in everything but the scale, meant to be used by giant robots trying to pick up messages from space so deep that human science was yet to even touch the rim of it. It was bare rock underneath the stationary satellite discs as the silk and slime had stopped at the fence, cementing the barrier against any interference.

And slowly dragging herself toward the field was Airachnid. With her new bloated and twisted body, she had to use her additional legs to move what was possible while the bulging insectoid abdomen scraped across the communication hub’s rooftop. It was like watching a bloated corpse with sickly, stick limbs being puppeteered to fool others into thinking it was still alive. As slow as Airachnid was moving, Steve couldn’t let her get any closer to the satellite field. He fired along the eyes and antennae, a common Insecticon weak-spot.

Airachnid screeched but only seemed mildly annoyed by the strikes. She stepped down from the building with a less than graceful landing. Her additional eight limbs kept her from tumbling over, but she was far from her previous agility. The ground quaked under her weight and one satellite was trampled by a leg as the creature tried to steady herself.

Bulkhead fired at Airachnid’s legs. Now they had a new concern: stopping the creature’s rampage before it destroyed the entire satellite field. Buttons was also firing along Airachnid’s abdomen, but it seemed to be only a minor annoyance. She whirled her head toward Bulkhead and unfurled her mouth. A proboscis slithered out, dripping slime and energon.

“That’s it, beastie! All optics on _me_!” Bulkhead growled. Then he gave another command, **[Buttons, Steve, air support! Arcee, I need an update on the satellites!]**

The command couldn’t have come sooner because now the Terrorcons were coming for them. While Buttons transformed into his alt and took to the sky, Steve was already shooting down the Terrorcons that were also flying at him. To Steve’s surprise, the Terrorcons were less of a deadly force and more of a mild irritant. Yes, there were a lot of them but they were a hungry mass with no true tactics or way to fight aside from animal instinct. When Steve had been Decepticon cannon fodder, the Terrorcons were a powerful nightmare.

But the tides of battle had turned. The Vehicons were given everything a good soldier needed: nutritional rations, proper recharge stations, training, software, and hardware upgrades. The Terrorcons had numbers but the Vehicons were now _threats_. Steve only needed to fire two electrified shots to disperse a Terrorcon swarm. The others he could split through with his aim.

 **[Stupid thing is still rebooting!]** Arcee’s voice was full of static across the comm. She must be speaking out loud because Steve could hear the sounds of laser fire and Billy yelling. **[We’re still at 25%!]**

 **[That’s not gonna be--]** Bulkhead began.

Steve could guess where that sentence was leading when _it_ happened.

Airachnid’s proboscis slid back into her mouth and a violet light shimmered. Then a beam of violet energy shot out, streaking across the field where Bulkhead had been standing. Even the tough machine couldn’t stand the force of a plasma ray and neither could the Terrorcons that failed to move out of the path of destruction or the wall of the satellite field. The air grew even smokier as lit slime and silk began spewing out gas. But Airachnid was far from done.

The monstrous Insecticon lifted her head and sliced her second plasma volt across the sky. Steve dived, choosing to tumble through the thick smoke and have his vents and fans sputter than take a direct hit from the beast. The Terrorcons were less lucky, screaming as they exploded into dark energon and flame.

**[ARCEE: Bulkhead, what’s going on? The satellites are spitting out errors!]**

The comm blared across everyone’s channel but Steve couldn’t pay any attention. He had no choice but to shift back into root mode, where he could better see the situation. Alt modes were strong but not when the field was full of smoke and debris. As he flew closer to the ground, he could make out the battlefield better.

 **[It….it's a war zone out here, commander.]** Steve said. It felt like such a cliché but there were no better fitting words for what he was looking at, **[I can’t see Commander Bulkhead or Buttons or—or anything! The satellites, half of them are melted…]**

Airachnid’s strike had gouged half the satellite field. Any discs that hadn’t been immediately melted onto the ground were ready to collapse. The wall had fallen as well, sending up more smoke as slime and silk burned. Steve coughed, feeling the loud whirring of his fans kick into overdrive. It would be a struggle to keep this gunk out of his breathing systems.

 **[Steve…i-it’s alright. We don’t need all the satellites. Even one will do.]** Arcee said but there was no hope in her voice. Only sad desperation.

**[BULKHEAD: HEY DONT COUNT ME OUT JUST YET]**

Steve’s focus returned and he started scanning the wreckage. There was a shuffling movement against what remained of the fence. The large machine had been knocked back but Buttons was beside him. Cowardly, irritating Buttons had gone against protocol and landed just to unearth his commander from a collapsing satellite. Bulkhead’s green paint had been scorched away by the heat, leaving him mottled black and green like army camo. Buttons helped him to his feet but Bulkhead had to lean against the Vehicon.

 **[Airachnid’s going berserk!]** Bulkhead sent, **[Also she picked up a few upgrades!]**

 **[I can’t see through the smoke!]** Arcee replied.

The smoke was still so thick on the battlefield that Steve couldn’t see the tower of the communications computer hub; only vague lights that may have come from the windows.

 **[We need more support!]** Buttons added.

 **[On my way!]** Billy chimed in.

Steve’s spark felt like it would leap out of his throat. Before he could warn Billy away, he could see a silver shape streaking through the clouds. Billy whipped around Airachnid’s head, striking at her antennae with electric shocks. Steve joined in on the fight. While Billy attacked from above, he worked below. A giant leg came swinging toward Steve but he swerved away, firing at a joint. There was a burst of sparks and fire and the leg buckled.

Bulkhead and Buttons were moving slowly across the field, firing at Terrorcons attempting to swarm them. Terrorcons fell from the sky in pieces and those that had fallen immediately dove to feast on their comrades.

Airachnid screamed. If she was her old self, she would have taunted them with her power. Now it was just wordless, monstrous rage. A still mobile leg scooped up the crumpled remains of a satellite and flung it. It spiraled through the air, raining metal debris and striking Billy squarely in the chest. Billy hit the fence and Airachnid turned, swinging toward the fallen Vehicon.

Steve’s spark sputtered. Time slowed and he knew at this moment he had one choice. He could save the remaining satellites or he could save Billy. And in the next second Steve made his choice. Satellites could be rebuilt. Computers could be repaired. But sparks couldn’t and Billy couldn’t. This wasn’t just about the satellite field anymore. This was about protecting everyone.

_This wasn’t just about keeping the peace anymore. This was about protecting everyone. He realized that too late as he laid on the floor of the interrogation room. The lights flickered above him as if Primus himself didn’t want to witness his mistakes._

“ _Give it up.” His interrogator was familiar to him, someone who had once been an ally. “You can’t deny the High Council. They only wish for the best for Cybertron.”_

_He spat energon on the floor._

“ _Frag off.” He hissed._

Steve flew at the beast and the air was crackling around him. His brain was on fire and every nerve was screaming at him to stop, that he would fall apart and destroy and melt if he didn’t stop but he had to do this. Even if it meant his destruction.

_Even if it meant his destruction, he would find a way to save him. To save everyone. He didn’t give a frag what_ ■■■■■ _said. He was going to rescue Sk■■■ if it was the last thing he did. Even if he had to go before the High Council and kill every one of them. Even if his frame shattered as he carried ■■■rp out of the prison. He would survive as the world screamed down upon them._

Steve fired down at Airachnid, cracking off one antenna and twisting the other. The smoke was still thick but the creature’s eyes were focused on him. Steve tried to look across the field—to get a sight on Billy—but that was when Airachnid struck. With a swing of her remaining front leg, she struck Steve from the sky.

Steve plummeted and crashed into another satellite. He struggled to get up Airachnid’s leg pierced him. The ground quaked as Airachnid moved in closer. With a throaty giggle, Airachnid pulled at Steve’s wired innards. She tilted her head, like a cat stretching yarn. Airachnid refolded her mouth but was still dripping slime. Her compound eyes magnified, finally getting a good look at him.

“A _Vehicon_?” Airachnid laughed, “All this time I never got a good look at you but _now_ I see you’re not even an Autobot! Did you seriously think a sack of slag like _you_ could play the hero?”

“ _Do you think you’re the hero here?” his interrogator asked, “You’re on the wrong side,_ ■■■■■ _r. I’ve seen your record. You’re a dedicated enforcer. Even more dedicated than that fragger Jazz. What happened?”_

“ _Where is S_ ■■■■■ _p?” he demanded._

“I’ve drained more important bots than you!” Airachnid cackled. Her maw once again unfurled, monstrous and dripping, “You worthless little creature….you don’t even have a name, Vehicon. You’re no better than a _drone_.”

She raised her other leg and struck Steve again. This time it was his lower chest, barely missing his spark. Smoke and electricity crackled from Steve’s body. Energon was rapidly leaking out but Steve could feel his consciousness fluttering. It was only a matter of time before he was unconscious, or dead.

“I’m…” Steve gasped and coughed up energon, dripping from the siphon underneath his faceplate. He grasped Airachnid’s leg that was still piercing him. “I’m not just a Vehicon….my name is…”

“ _I’m not just a civilian….my designation is….”_

“My name is _Steve_!” Steve shouted.

“… _THUNDERCRACKER!”_

Then Steve let the boom go. He put everything into this last crackle of power left in his miserable body—the pain of losing friends, the fear of being vivisected for being different, the aimless dread of being without a cause, and the confusion of his mere existence—all of it went into the power that tore through him. Lightning raced up Airachnid’s leg, arcing as it struck the dark energon and the spires twisting through her body. Her eyes and mouth exploded, discharging a mingling of blue and violet. Sparks rained down and just then the ground gave a fatal, earsplitting _crack._

Whether it was the force of Steve’s boom or the weight of Airachnid’s monstrous form, the lunar surface had given up the ghost. The ground exploded and Steve felt himself plummet into the darkness below.  
  



End file.
